“You’re going to answer our questions, and you’re going to answer them truthfully.” Vladimir’s no-nonsense tone booms in the silence of the space.

“I’ll happily answer. What are your questions?” I maintain my smile, making sure it’s neither taunting nor threatening.

I don’t want to kill them, because it’d be a fucking hassle to hide the bodies and come up with excuses, but if they keep getting on my nerves, that’s exactly what will happen.

“Come with us.” Vladimir motions at the warehouse.

“I would rather we talk here. I have a thing against rusty warehouses. Do you know how many germs are in places like these?”

“Cut the sarcastic attitude and follow us.”

“I vote no.”

“This is no fucking democracy. You don’t have a choice.”

“I beg to differ. I do have a choice. In fact, I choose to walk away from here without answering any questions. You lost your chance, Vladimir.”

I attempt to leave but the guards close in on me, and I tighten my hold, calculating who to shoot first. Probably the bald head, one of Vladimir’s closest soldiers and possibly the strongest. If he’s gone, I’ll have a better chance of finishing off the others.

Vladimir shakes his head and they stop in their tracks.

What the fuck?

They don’t even retrieve their guns, remaining frozen in place.

“I said I’m leaving.” I try again and pause at the slur in my voice. I’m not the type who drinks until I get drunk, because that’s equivalent to letting my guard down and signing my own death certificate.

Back in the restaurant, I only had two glasses of wine, which I can tolerate perfectly, so what’s with the slur at the end of my speech?

“The fuuuck are you doing?” I point my gun at the bald head. “Geeet youuur weapon.”

The slur is getting worse, not better.

“Don’t waste a bullet on him,” says Vladimir—or the twin that just appeared by his side. “Our work has already been done for us.”

The gun slips from my hand and drops to the ground. It’s the first time I’ve lost control over my weapon. It’s like my hand has no strength to hold a gun.

Our work has already been done for us.

My vision blurs, and the seven men turn into fourteen. That’s when the dooming realization hits me.

I’ve been poisoned.

My body swings back and I slam against one of the guards before I fall on my knees to the ground.

As the world spins around, the pieces slowly come together.

There’s only one person who could’ve poisoned me today: the one who poured me my second glass of wine.

My wife stabbed me in the back and threw me to her pack of wolves.

9

Kyle

My eyes open slowly, my lids sticking to each other.

The first thing I notice is that I’m sitting down and completely bound to a metal chair.

Plain gray walls surround me, and rusty metal machines flicker in the corners. I shake my head; no, they’re not the ones moving—it’s my vision.

I try to move, but thick ropes hold me in place. I’m sitting on a metal chair, my hands bound behind my back and feet strapped to the metal.

This isn’t a new experience for me. With enough wiggling about, I can flip the chair backward then bend one of its legs, and once I free my ankles, I’ll have more leeway to release myself.

Before I can act on my plan, I’m surrounded by the lucky seven who captured me. They didn’t even bother to take me to one of their compounds and just moved me inside the warehouse. If the location holds no importance, then it should mean my life or death doesn’t matter.

Vladimir steps forward, handing his jacket to one of his underlings, and makes a show of rolling his sleeves to his elbows and revealing his Bratva tattoos. While doing so, he watches me with his usual grumpy, brooding expression that makes him such a bore.

“I didn’t know we were close enough to play kinky games, Vladimir. Before we start, my safe word is Let me go.” My tone is humorous, but it doesn’t camouflage the taste of betrayal burning down my throat and over my chest.

Rai didn’t only poison me, she also handed me over to her men so they’d finish the job.

I’m supposed to be mad, to let my anger take over, but any semblance of it is squashed by that fucking burning feeling.

“You’re quite edgy, aren’t you?” I continue in the same joking tone. “Is this place similar to where you usually live?”

“This will be your grave if you don’t answer our questions.”

“I don’t like knife play either. All that blood is a hassle to clean.”

“Are you done being a smart fucker?”

“I’m just communicating legitimate concerns, Vladimir. We need to have ground rules for these things.”

“Rules?” He scoffs. “Since when do you believe in those?”

“Since the Bratva. Your rules are no joke, mate.”

“I’m not your mate. Now either answer me or we’ll start with the knife you hate so much.” He pauses to drive the information home. “Who’s your insider with the Irish?”

“And I should tell you because…?”

“Because if you don’t, you’ll regret it. That’s your final warning, Hunter.”

“I know we’re doing kinky stuff, but we’re not exactly at the point in our relationship where we’d have a cheeky heart-to-heart, eh?”

Vladimir raises his fist and punches me across the face so hard, I flinch in my seat and blood explodes from my upper lip.

Motherfucker.

“This will only get worse with every wrong answer.” He tightens his fist. “What are your plans?”

“Going home to my beautiful wife. Do you think she’ll mind whatever kink we’re exercising here since she’s the one who set us up together—”

I’m cut off when he jams his fist into my face, nearly breaking my fucking nose. I gasp on air, spitting away the blood that’s gathered at my mouth.

Vladimir doesn’t seem bothered by the red that’s smudging his fingers, but then again, he specializes in torture, so this entire scene is his playground.

“I repeat, what are your plans?”