12. Brothers, can’t live with them, can’t kill them
TWELVE
brOTHERS, CAN’T LIVE WITH THEM, CAN’T KILL THEM
As Harrington wakes up, I cross my feet at the ankle and study my prey.
His head whips from side to side almost immediately, like the old fuck has yet to piece it together that he isn’t tucked up safe and sound in his bed.
When he sees the cuffs his Domme locked him up in, he groans. Like the power of suggestion is what made him remember his arms and legs have lost sensation.
Once he notices me, however, he grows still.
Fitting, I think, considering his family is so proud of slaughtering animals. Now he knows how it feels to be in a predator’s sights.
“It wasn’t a fever dream. This is your new reality.”
And so the outrage flows free: “You can’t do this to me, goddammit! I want some pain meds and—”
“You did this to yourself, Mr. Harrington. I did nothing apart from walk in on a couple engaging in consensual sex acts. That you happened to pay me top dollar for.”
“Let me go! You have no right—”
“I have every right. You claim to be a God-fearing citizen of the good ol’ U S of A, Mr. Harrington. What would the world think if they knew?” I tsk.
His nostrils flare. I watch him fight his inclinations, then… “What do you want?”
“You roll over that fast? So scared that your friends will think you’re lacking because you like being pegged by a woman?” I laugh. “Luckily for you, I only want information. But it’s reciprocal. I’ll feed you some in turn.”
“What kind of information?” His face crumples. “I-I’ll think about it. Just give me some pain meds, please!”
“I watched your son last night at the Veronian pledging ceremony.”
His shoulders straighten, but he moans in pain as the nerve endings flicker and twitch back to life. “Oh, god, it was his first rite! What happened?”
“You lied to me.”
“I did no such thing!”
“You lied. Now, I want to know what else you lied about.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Why did I have to find out what happens to the female pledges from hearing someone whisper and gossip at the rite?”
“What do they matter? They only ever get in on their backs,” Harrington mutters, his confusion evident.
“I consider an evasion to be a lie.”
“Women are selected to partner up with strong initiates,” he blusters. “They’ll typically buddy up and marry. It’s an approved partnership. Why would that even matter to someone like you?”
Every word he uttered hammers a nail in his coffin.
I get to my feet and stroll over to him. “Because one of those women belongs to me.”
“They’re one of your hookers?” Harrington’s frown puckers. “That makes no sense. Their pedigrees are tested.”
“Like they’re dogs,” I clarify.
“Breeding matters. Ties matter.”
“Who decides which women are selected?”
“Typically, the council.”
“You mentioned that last night. Ten of them, no?”
“Precisely. They decide who the years’ female initiates will be and who they’ll marry.”
“Did you know your son was selected to have a wife?”
“I’m on the council, so of course I did.”
“And did you agree with his choice of bride?”
“I didn’t, actually. This year’s picks are bred from scum—” His mouth tightens. “I didn’t mean that.”
“What is it that offends you? Her Russian blood or that she’s tied to the mafia?”
“Neither enamor me if you must know. Please, can’t you let me down? I don’t feel well!”
The man’s entitlement has me laughing. “I cut off your ear, Harrington. This is me torturing you. I’m not your Dom.
” I angle closer to him. “But to clarify the situation, I don’t give a fuck if you feel well or not.
You’re lucky that I had you moved last night so you wouldn’t lose your hands and feet.
“Now, what would you say if I told you your son didn’t like his choice of bride either?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I raised him to expect the best.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
Harrington stills. “What do we agree on?”
“That you’re to blame for the way he turned out.”
“Now, see here—”
“I don’t have to see anything. Your boy’s dead, Brother Theodoric—”
“What?! NO!”
“Oh, yes. I told her to kill him and like a good little soldier, she did.” I smirk at him. “Didn’t expect that, did you? That the intended victim would become the attacker?”
“You can’t be serious. You’re lying to me,” he implores. “Please, tell me you’re lying. I’ll give you whatever you want—”
“It won’t bring your son back.” His inner masochist made it hard to torture him. This news shatters something my knife couldn’t reach. Doesn’t mean I can’t twist the verbal blade: “She slit his throat. Stood over him while he bled out. Earned herself a red cloak. What does that mean?”
“A red cloak?” he echoes, scandalized. “You’re telling me they anointed her?!”
“I assumed it was a show of strength. Why do I feel that’s not the case?”
“It’s a show of dominance. Over the other initiates. It means she’ll get through to the third rite even if she fucks up the second.”
“Your darling boy would have killed her.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“He was aiming for kill shots. Don’t tell me I didn’t understand what I was seeing.”
“They let you vouch for her,” he says dully.
I hum. “Didn’t expect that either, did you?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Unfortunately for you, my networking capabilities have gained me a lot of friends in high places. And I’m a generous man. The Veronians will learn how generous I can be soon enough.”
“Why am I here?!” he roars, shaking his cuffs, rattling his bindings.
Of course, he sags. Blood loss. Fatigue. Age. The man isn’t in his prime.
“At your brothers’ request.”
“What?!”
“To earn the invitation, you were the name they gave her.”
His eyes grow round with horror. “Why?”
“I have to wonder if they knew she’d kill him.
The ear sent a message. You and your spawn must have pissed them off.
” I step closer to him, enjoying his misery.
“Ordinarily, I’d think the loss of a child would be adequate punishment if I throw in yesterday’s session too.
Unfortunately for you, he left bruises.”
“Bruises?” Harrington’s tears trickle down his cheeks. “What are you talking about?”
His confusion is multifaceted. The old bastard has no idea why he’s here.
“He hurt her. She doled out the ultimate punishment, of course, but that means I’m left with my vengeance unresolved.” Before he has the chance to plead for mercy, I dig my knife into the side of his head, just below his ear. Well, where his ear once was. “Head wounds always bleed heavily—”
“No, please!” He twists aside then hisses when he nicks himself on my blade anyway. Idiot. “I’ll give you anything you want. Tell you anything you want. I swear!”
I ponder that, finding it curious if not good luck that the man thinks he has a chance of making his way out of this room in one of my warehouses.
Burrowing the tip into his neck, I ask about a name I heard being discussed at last night’s banquet: “Is Gideon Taylor-Wright a Veronian?”
“Y-Yes. Has been for a long time. His vero was Clyde Korhonen,” Harrington says in a rush, using the term I’ve come to learn means “partner” in this dumbfuck secret society. “They had a hedge fund together before Korhonen was arrested in Canada on some kind of murder charge.
“Korhonen’s a billionaire. He backed the hedge fund and used it to tear down companies that evaded Veronian interest.”
Funny how desperation will loosen a man’s tongue.
I lower the knife then, as relief hits, hurl it into the wall next to his head.
While he screeches, I retrieve another from an ankle holster. Still breathing hard, Harrington eyes the blade warily, but the tremor in his muscles dissipates.
“How can a company ‘evade Veronian interest?’”
“With great difficulty. T-Typically, a brother approaches them and makes an offer—”
“An offer they can’t refuse?”
“Y-Yes,” he rambles, not picking up on my mockery. “Once you catch our attention, it’s unwise not to follow through with our requests.”
“If they accede to your demands, do they become a Veronian?”
“No, but they gain our protection.”
“If they refuse?”
“Then their assets are disassembled,” he says in a flustered rush, his eyes tracking the knife’s path as I dig the tip into my forefinger and spin it in a circle.
Just the sight of my own blood has him panting heavily.
Knowing full well that this could set off a panic attack, I pluck at his remaining earlobe and slice straight through to the cartilage.
One.
He screams. Not even like a girl. Victoria didn’t scream like that last night. But this piece of shit does and I barely cut him—and he calls himself a masochist.
When the inevitable panic attack kicks off, I watch as he tortures himself with little effort on my side.
Eventually, he passes out and I get some peace and quiet.
I slouch over to my chair once more and tip my head to stare at the ceiling.
“This is a scene worthy of a portrait.”
“Fuck off, Misha. I’m thinking.”
“I know. It’s hard.”
“Why haven’t I killed you yet?”
“Because it would mean all the times you saved my life would have been for nothing. Of course, the number of times I’ve saved yours, too, were a waste of energy… ungrateful fucker.”
I laugh at a damp patch on the ceiling.
“What are you thinking about?”
“The future.”
“Why?”
“Do you know who I saw at last night’s banquet?”
“God?”
I snort and rock my head forward to grin at him. “Moron.”
He shrugs. “Jesus?”
“How about the Holy Trinity?”
“Nah, that’d be overkill. The Veronians just think they’re gods.”
The bitch of it is, as much as this society irritates me with its rules and moronic ways of working, its power is undeniable.
“Agreed… The president included.”
“We knew Devere attended Oakwood and that he was in the frat.”
“Doesn’t it make you wonder?”
“About how Russia’s vilified in the press for revoking the public’s freedoms but the US president is rubbing shoulders with the brothers of a secret society that most haven’t even heard of?
Working back-channel deals and making political moves that Congress will never hear whispers of unless they’re at the same banquets?
Yeah. I have nightmares about it all the time. ”
“What did Nikolai tell you about sarcasm?”