61. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
I’m no stranger to hangovers, but this one might be the worst.
Luckily, my memory isn’t so fucked that I'm not aware that the headache and pain in the side of my head and the tender arms from my rough fall to the ground aren’t of my own creation but whoever thought it wise to jump me.
Whoever they are has a death wish and better be ready to pay what they’ve reaped.
Without shifting, I perform a mental rundown of my body.
My ass is numb against something flat, likely a chair—probably having been on it for a few hours at minimum.
Rope is taut around my wrists, and the tenderness in my arms continues, given how they’re bent behind me.
My ankles remain freed, which means whoever captured me underestimates my abilities, while also overcompensating because the amount of rope around my wrists is plain stupid.
There’s too much, leaving gaps in their ties.
Gaps I can use to undo the rope after determining if my wrists are in view of anyone who could alert to my escape.
I’m still dressed the same, the familiar tightness of the bodice annoyingly pinching into my stomach from how they’ve slumped me over, but I can’t move to adjust and announce my consciousness yet. My feet are bare, however, heels probably kicked off during the kidnapping.
“When’s she going to wake up?” The Italian accent reassures me I’m still in the country and not dragged elsewhere.
“Soon.”
They’re so sure of that, though not wrong. Cocky to make assumptions, which may mean easy to manipulate.
Piercing cold penetrates my clothes, staining my body as water is abruptly splashed onto me. My feigned sleep ceases in a series of hard coughs as I blink through the drops and open my eyes to a figure standing before me, gripping a now-empty bucket.
Fucking asshole.
“There. Awake.” He turns back to his partner and tosses the bucket off to the side. I follow it, taking in the setting.
Crates are stacked in a far corner, a garage-style door on the opposite end. Dim lights and cobwebs seem to be the unfortunate chosen décor. It’s a warehouse, and nothing I haven’t been inside plenty of times before.
Three figures stand shoulder to shoulder, like some messed-up crime scene.
Two in cargo pants—one shirtless and one not—and one in a suit.
He seems the most irritated by my presence, sneering down at me.
Something about him is familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
A wedding guest I refused to dance with?
I’ve handled worse than three men, and with no one behind me, I start tugging at the ropes. My skin burns at the roughness as I maneuver one finger through the largest loop.
The middle guy, the one Bucket Man spoke to, approaches by a single step—which tells me all I need to know about his guts. “Welcome to Rome, Signorina Petrov. Though, from what we’ve heard, you’re quite familiar with our land.”
“And?” The word grates up my throat, burning with dehydration. “While I’d love to skip over the boring questions, I literally have no idea who you people are or what you want, so I do have to ask.”
My finger slides through the largest hold, managing to undo one layer of many around my wrists.
The shirtless one, whether to answer me entirely or by coincidence, readjusts his stance and my gaze catches on the tattoos suddenly made visible. A marking on his chest that looks identical to something I’d kissed months ago.
“Cosa Nostra.” Shouldn’t entirely surprise me. “Mancini know you’re up to this?”
Bucket Man, my greeter, laughs harshly, earning the same reaction from his shirtless friend, but still without a reaction from the suited one. “Mancini’s head is so far up his ass these days, he’s forgotten his heritage. He’ll thank us for wiping out the Russian scum who’s been stealing from us.”
After finding the weapons in the brothel, Vanessa mentioned the issues Zeno’s been dealing with the past few months. Deals suddenly ceasing negotiations, his soldiers murdered, and missing merchandise. There’s yet to be a trace as to why they ended up in a basement in Moscow, of all places.
“That’s what all this is?” This being the rope tying me in place, which I manage to undo another layer of. “You’re dumb enough to steal weapons from your own people, all to frame the Bratva? What—because you don’t approve of your Capo’s choice in a bride?”
He spits on the floor by my feet. “He’s taken in by cunt and nothing more.”
I file that statement away to recount to Vanessa later when she’s dancing on their graves.
“Repeat that to her face, I dare you. If framing the Bratva was your plan, you have issues. For one, murdering the person you framed for arms dealing makes it too obvious. If dropping my corpse on Zeno’s doorstep is meant to drive a wedge between the married couple, it won’t.
They’ll immediately know it’s someone else’s doing, so good luck for when two criminal organizations hunt your asses.
Then there’s the fact you’re too late. You should have kidnapped me two days ago, because unless you missed the gold-scripted monogrammed invites that Zeno almost strangled his mother over, they’re already married. ”
My rambles go on and on, filling the room with chatter as I manage more and more of the tie, until finally, one wrist is free and able to tug the rest all the way off.
I keep it balled in my hands, though, arms still behind my back, until there’s a more ideal time to catch them off guard.
At this point, I don’t know what weapons they have or where they’re storing them.
“Putting aside all the idiocies in your plan, tell me what my ending will be. Gunshot wound—slow and painful. Throat slit—always a winner.” Papa’s corpse flashes through my head.
Bucket Man, being predictable as I needed him to be, discloses his weapon by retrieving a switchblade from his right ankle. He strides forward, making this all too easy.
The shirtless one scans me, rubbing his chin. “Maybe we’ll have a taste first, see if Mancini’s smart about chasing northern pussy.”
Once upon a time, a threat like that may have terrified me. At this point, I’ve killed for less and will happily again. Freed from the bounds, they won’t hurt me like that because they’ll never have the chance.
Until that weapon is in reaching distance, I’ll keep them talking, thinking, and simply pissing them off. “Rape,” I croon with a dramatic flutter of my lashes. “Always a winner in the power game. It’ll make you feel like big, strong men. I’m curious who’ll go first. Will you fight over me?”
The knife opens with a whoosh, but he still doesn’t react, tipping his head towards the one in the suit. The only one who has yet to speak, but I understand why.
“You’re the leader of this ragtag bunch,” I conclude. “Too clean to get your hands dirty?”
He barely blinks before casting his attention onto the others. “She’s deflecting. Stalling because she assumes her people will come. I’ve watched this one long enough to know how the Bratva enjoy playing with their food.”
Alright, this I didn’t see coming. The Russian accent unfortunately makes him one of mine. So soldiers from Zeno’s side and someone from ours who has grudges against their marriage.
This explains why he looks familiar. “What do I owe this honour, gospodin…?”
“Vasilyev.”
I nearly drop the rope and reveal my hand—literally—sooner than intended with how hard laughter bursts from my chest. “Oh, this is too good! You’re Georgy Vasilyev? All this because Vanessa turned you down? Take a breath and realize you were never a contender.”
He shifts his stance, trying to make himself seem like someone who’d create fear in an Elite.
“Ursin Volkov would keel over and die if he saw what’s become of the Bratva.
Ivan Volkov would be disgraced. I was trying to help them restore the organization to its rightful place, but your Pakhan is too stubborn to see the obvious path. ”
“If Vanessa’s actions would make Ursin ‘keel over and die,’ to use your words, she’d do the same thing a hundred times over. Your reasoning sucks.”
He takes a weighted step forward into the light, letting me see what I haven’t before.
The manic look, the vein bursting on his forehead, the bulging eyes right before he pops off.
“She was promised to me! Me! Ursin promised me her hand, but out of respect for my future bride, I was hoping she’d come willingly.
With a little discord between her new husband, their marriage will crumble. Your death will break them.”
That’s why he never mentioned that tidbit prior, during his numerous attempts to pull her in.
“You’re a little Romeo, aren’t you?” Baring my teeth, I lean forward as much as their rope would allow for, provided I was tied up.
“News flash, Ursin lied. You’re chasing a backroom deal he never intended to keep because why would he try to marry her to Erico Rossi then?
That was a deal he intended to follow through on, if the attempted kidnapping of Rossi’s wife was any indication. ”
A flicker of surprise lowers his brows. He didn’t know, but I’m thrilled to be the bearer of this bad news.
The Cosa Nostra traitors cast uneasy glances, probably trying to determine how much of their plan is about to go tits up, when Vasilyev jerks his chin, a sneer replacing the uncertainty. “Start.”
Bucket Man with the knife—Knife Man now?—whirls like a kid on Christmas morning. All lit up in excitement to extract pain, but unknowingly about to die himself.
Once he’s within arm’s reach, I drop the rope and lunge to my feet, turning for the chair I was strapped to.
Gripping the back, I don’t look before swinging, but the crunch of bones breaking confirms my success.
The impact flings the knife from his hand to about four feet away.
Blood spurts from his cut mouth, followed by a tooth landing with a quiet tick by my feet.
“Next.”