WHEN YOU MARRY A QUEEN, YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER TO KNEEL
FORTY-FOUR
After that aggravating-as-fuck text chat with my glowing bride, I study the setup ahead of me and nod in approval.
At least some things are normal in my world.
My men obey my commands.
Unlike my wife.
“You sure about this, shukher?”
“I trust you, Kirill. I do. Genuinely. But the fact you asked me that out loud has me wondering why the fuck you’re so high up in my ranks.”
It’s like being nagged by a nanny.
It’s also the last thing I need after arguing with my wife of seventy-two hours.
He reddens and stands straighter. “There are repercussions if you go ahead with this.”
“Scared of spilling pig blood, Kirill? When aren’t there repercussions? A pig touched my bride. What do you think I should do? Shake his hand instead of cutting it off?”
Kirill’s mouth purses but he retreats.
Staying out of this is what he should’ve done from the start.
Tima claps Kirill on the back. Commiseratively.
As if I needed more motivation to demote the pair of them.
“You can’t do this,” Bordeau sobs as the sound of my approach echoes around the warehouse. “You need to let me go. I’m a cop!”
Bordeau, suspended between two tables, in a puddle of light so bright it’s strong enough to make anyone’s eyes water, jerks his head from left to right as he seeks the source of my footsteps.
The rest of the warehouse floor is pitch black, making it harder for him to know where I am and, more so, who I am.
He doesn’t know two dozen of my men circle him.
He has no idea they’re waiting to crack out the vodka to celebrate his punishment.
“Who is that? Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?! I’m a detective! THAT MEANS SOMETHING.”
I bite off a laugh. “Do you assault so many women on a day-to-day basis, detective, that you can’t piece together who might have strung you up like this?”
He’s silent for long enough that I know he’s attempting to push his panic aside.
His terrified anticipation means his breathing grows ever heavier, which only amplifies his fear.
A part of me thinks of how scared Victoria must have been. Alone. Cornered. Somewhere the public foolishly assumes is “safe” with an officer of the law he’s supposed to uphold. But this man put his hands on her. His threats chased around her head, encouraging her to doubt me.
But I can’t think about that.
If I did, he’d die and he can’t.
Yet.
Instead, I focus on the preparations that have been made at my request.
Notched onto the adapted butcher’s hook up his ass, feet bound together, cock swinging in the breeze, naked as the day he was born, he dangles between two tables that are splashed with blood.
An adapted vice locks his arms in place, holding them steady—a necessary evil considering his elbows are broken.
Content with the amount of pain he’s in, I step into the circle of light.
No signs of recognition register, but he’s glassy-eyed, stuck in flight mode when we’ve made sure he can go nowhere. Perhaps it’s a touch too much to expect him to know who’ll make him pay for his misdeeds.
“Can you guess whose woman you touched, detective?”
“Please, let me go! I’ll never say anything. I’ll stay quiet. I’ll—”
“You’ll stay quiet anyway, detective. Your position means shit to me. I have pigs oinking at me for a hundred dollars a shot like the two-buck whores you so malign. You’re nothing special—”
“I’m a Veronian!” he shrieks.
“I doubt that,” I deride, though I’m lying. I just don’t know how a pleb like him got his in. “Why would they waste a spot in their society on a grunt like you?”
“I’m not a grunt. My father—”
“Why would I give a fuck about who your daddy is?”
Bordeau bawls, “He was a state senator.”
“You must have been a real letdown.”
“No! I swear I’m a Veronian. I know things. People!”
“You could have the president on speed dial and I wouldn’t give a shit, Bordeau. You touched my woman. That means you’ll pay.”
“NO! I’ll help you. Please, let me help. I have intel! You’re Russian, right? One of those Forgotten Boys?”
A cackle echoes around the warehouse, reminding me that my men are watching the show.
It’s always good for them to see where they’ll end up if they betray me.
“Oh, yes, I’m one of those Forgotten Boys.”
He visibly startles then sobs in pain.
Collecting my favorite hacksaw, I sneer, “I can’t believe they were going to pair her with you, you sniveling piece of shit. Because that was their intention, right?”
Seeing the hacksaw, he wails, “Please! I can help. I know who I touched now. The Russian girl. I’m sorry. It was under orders. They wanted her to submit! I can tell you things that’ll help her. I know she wants to be a Veronian. They’re already talking about how she has the most potential—”
I set the blade to his arm. He weeps and bucks, wriggling and moaning as he puts up a fight, but there’s no fighting industrial vices.
With the blade lodged into his muscle, he cries, “YES. She was supposed to be my vero!”
Vero. Partner.
“If you thought that would save you, you’re an idiot,” Misha decries.
Blood spurts and spatters as I get to work on his first wrist, more satisfied than ever at having wrung him dry.
It’s surprisingly difficult to cut through bone when blood makes everything so slippery, but fuck, the satisfaction is worth it.
He howls and screams and sobs and pisses himself, then thankfully, he passes out.
Someone puts on music and I can hear the clinking of glasses as my men sink back vodka shots and hand bottles around—pigs mean free vodka. The good shit, too.
When the first hand is off, nerves twitching and blood spurting lethargically, I snap my fingers.
Someone brings out the iron, steam rising from it as tiny drops of water dance before disintegrating into the air.
Like I’m about to press a shirt, I shove the hot metal against his stub.
He wakes, long enough to scream in agony, before passing out again.
Whistling, I move around to the second hand, where I find his brand nestled on his wrist.
Same old, same old.
I stick the tip of my blade above the crown and slice it out.
When I cauterize this wound, he doesn’t wake up.
He remains unconscious as I sever his other hand and cauterize the new stub.
Doused in his lifeblood, I release him from the vices and watch him kiss the concrete floor with his forehead.
“Think his shoulders are busted, boss,” Tima crows as Bordeau wakes up.
Just in time to gain a third and final stub—right between his legs.
Five minutes later, Kirill steps into the puddle of light. “Next move, shukher?”
“Keep him alive.”
“With Harrington?”
I nod.
“The old man’s getting an infection,” Kirill warns. “The cop’s bound to with those kinds of wounds as well.”
“We keep Harrington going for as long as we can. Ask Valentini. He’ll help. He developed a drug to make sure his enemies live long enough to suffer. Then he decides when to put them out of their misery.
“If the cop needs a doctor, get him one. We’re not beasts, Kirill.”
Dipping his chin, he retreats, cell in hand, then implements my orders while Tima steps closer with a cooler prepped and ready to go.
After setting the extremities inside, I back off so I don’t get blood on it. “Wrap that up and put it in the SUV I’ll be taking to Poughkeepsie.”
“Da, Maxim.”
Heading away from the light, I blink a few times as the darkness consumes me then head over to the back wall where a shower setup awaits.
I step in fully clothed and begin the cleaning process.
As the blood flows down the drain, I rock my head from side to side. Tension’s clustered there, triggering a headache, since Victoria left for college.
“He’s awake,” Kirill tells me as I drag my fingers through my hair and eradicate all traces of blood in it.
“More fool him.”
“Are you sure—”
I glare at him. “If you ask me that one more time, I’ll put you in those vices next.”
“I’m just concerned, shukher,” he appeases.
“Don’t be. He touched my wife, which means he disrespected our family.” I bellow the last words. The music cuts off abruptly. The chatter of drunk voices fades. “If any of your wives or sisters or mothers or daughters were hurt, I’d bring that man in and make him bleed too.
“Because the world might have forgotten us, but I haven’t, and I will make those who dared think they could, pay.”
A roar sounds around the warehouse, one that has Kirill ducking away again, one that scents of approval and that’ll inspire loyalty. That’ll remind my men of the chains that bind us together, chains that were formed on the streets of Moskva where a lot of us were raised.
“Stop terrifying the help.”
My shoulders drop as I turn my face back into the spray. “You took your time.”
Misha grouses, “I was busy coordinating things for Victoria.”
“Why?”
“Her guards ended their shift and gave me an update of what’s happened with her while our attention’s been elsewhere.”
Even though our last conversation was more of a fight, a chuckle escapes me. “She’s as bloodthirsty as I am.”
“It’s been a long time since you sent her hands. The dick’s new.”
“She’ll love them when she finds out who they belong to.”
“You can just send flowers, you know? Whatever you’ve done to piss her—”
“Who says I have?”
“Your temper. You’ve been clomping around Manhattan like you have a personal grudge against concrete.”
“You don’t—”
“I know you, Maxim. What did you do? You’re such a self-sabotager.”
“Have you been watching daytime television again? Self-sabotager,” I scoff. “Are you taking psychology with Victoria?”
I don’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me how you managed to annoy your wife of—”
“What’s going on with Kirill?” I demand instead of punching him.
“His wife’s pregnant.”
Ah, shit. “Again?”
“Yes.”
I grimace and accept the explanation with little fuss.
Three miscarriages into their marriage and Kirill turns into a father hen every time they make another attempt at having a child, only growing worse as her term passes.
Especially as Ekaterina is terrified he’ll end up in jail before she gives birth.
As I wash my hair for the third time, the smell of burning fabric hits my nose as my men clean up around me. When a pressure washer sounds in the background, mixing in with the noises of the happy drunks who whistle while they work, I ask him, “What do you think of Dmitri?”
“Which one?”
I admonish, “You know which.”
Dmitri is Nikolai’s eldest son, which means, unfortunately for us, he’s another brother.
Misha finally looks up from his phone. “Ask me a question, Max, and I’ll answer.”
I let the water pummel me. “Kirill isn’t strong enough. I don’t think he ever was. He and Tima have served their purpose.”
Misha narrows his eyes. “Both of them?”
“Yes. Want a promotion, brat?”
“I should always have been your avtoritet.”
“Perhaps.”
“Always.”
I grunt. “Fine.”
Satisfied, he muses, “Dmitri would be a strong contender for vor if he didn’t have his hands full with Sofia.”
“Who’s studying at Oakwood.”
At my prompt, Misha groans. “We’re grown men. It’s weird for us to be hanging around college campuses this much!”
“You know I’m right.” My lips quirk. “Dmitri’s a clever fucker. He’d easily get a place. It would be added protection for us all.”
“You expect him to study and take over Kirill’s role?”
“I think the little shit can handle it,” I scorn.
He rubs his chin. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Victoria has no allegiances in the Veronians.”
“You want him to pledge?!”
I switch off the water and grab a towel. “It’s a good idea, nyet? You know damn well they’ll let him in. With his ties to Nikolai.”
“No way! People will recognize Sofia. Ya know, Turgenev. The Krestniy Otets’s daughter. A brother in the Veronians!”
“Hardly. He never leaves Moscow. Plus, he kept her locked away like Sleeping Beauty. There are very few pictures of her in existence and the ones that are were taken years ago. She’s changed since then.”
His cheeks gust out. “He is smart.”
“I know.”
“Plus, this is his idea of a good time.”
“Da.”
“Fuck.”
I hide my smirk with a swipe of the towel over my head.
“I reserve the right to say, ‘Tebe raz skazali, tebe dva skazali,*’ when this goes to shit.”
“When don’t you shove my mistakes in my face?” I mock, skewering the air with my middle finger.
“And Kirill? You want him…” He swipes a hand across his throat.
“No. He’s good with numbers—”
“Not as good as Dmitri.”
“True,” I concede. “Still, he’ll be busy elsewhere. Kirill is better in admin. We’ll switch him to a back-office role and Dmitri can be the face. Ever since he got shot, the men respect him more.”
“This means I won’t have to deal with Ekaterina anymore. That blyad is a pain in my ass.” Seemingly relieved by the notion, he folds his hands over his abdomen. “What are you doing with the pig? He might have information.”
“That’s why I’ll keep him alive.”
Is that not obvious?
Plus, as much as it pains me, leverage. Victoria needs all she can get with those bastards.
“It’s starting to look like an infirmary in the back room. Since when were we in the business of keeping people alive when they owe us blood?”
“What can I say? I’m not as kill-happy as people think.”
“Ha! It’s easier to feed them to the pigs.”
“Nothing good in this life is easy, especially when I want him to suffer. Make up your mind—do you want me to keep them so we can pump them for information or not?” At his harrumph, I sneer. “Now, I’ll be heading to Poughkeepsie after this.”
He hums. “This going to become a regular thing?”
“Probably. Have a problem with that?”
“I appreciate my cock where it is, thank you.”
“See, Misha? I knew you had it in you to be smart.”
“You need to start embracing that whole ‘happy wife, happy life’ sitch, Maxim.”
“And you need to start embracing your balls before I chop them off. Get out of my sight!” Misha darts away and I growl to myself. “Surrounded by brats! God help me!”
* Footnote: Russian for “I told you so…”