Page 5 of Betrayal and Vows

I move out from behind the crates and join him in front of the man staring wide-eyed at us.

“Who are you?” Dmitri asks him.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him.

“You’re not curious?”

The man is whimpering and begging for his life. He thrashes, making the chair screech across the concrete.

“Please,” he gasps. “I’ll pay. Whatever you want. I’ll pay and disappear.”

Dmitri arches one of those bushy eyebrows that I give him shit about all the time. He’s mastered the ability to raise just one—a trick I have not learned. His blue eyes hold a question. I shake my head in reply.

“No,” I tell him.

He wants the money to add to our stash. We’ll kill the man anyway, but it’s messy.

Dmitri sighs and turns to look at the man. “Who are you?”

I crouch in front of the man and study him. I don’t recognize him.

“Oh shit!” Dmitri throws his head back and lets out a laugh. He uses the barrel of his gun to poke at the man’s forehead. “Remember?”

I get to my feet once again, my six foot two height towers over the man still sitting and edges just an inch over Dmitri. “No. I don’t care.”

“He came to the restaurant a few months ago,” Dmitri says. “With the offer.”

The way he says it and his blue eyes flashing with irritation has me taking another look at the man. I look beyond the bruises and blood.

“Krysy,” I hiss. “You’re a rat.”

The man starts shaking his head. “I can help. I can tell you anything you want to know.”

He tried to sell out his own crew. He came to us looking for money. We pay him and he tells us about our rival. Rats are rats. We never deal with rats. I don’t care if he tried to help. I almost feel bad we killed his torturers too soon. He deserves more.

Dmitri agrees. I know he does by that look in his eyes and the smirk on his lips. “You remember when we took out that banker in Prague?” he asks casually.

I nod once, pulling a blade from my belt.

“He pissed himself before we even cut the tape on his mouth,” Dmitri says, grinning. “Amateur.”

“Unfortunate,” I murmur, dragging the tip of the blade down the rat’s collarbone. “I like them conscious.”

“You like them terrified,” Dmitri says.

“And you like hearing yourself talk.”

“Can’t both be true?”

The man tries to pull away. I let the blade nick him—just a taste of what’s coming.

“You ever think about that guy in Berlin?” Dmitri says conversationally. “The one who begged us to kill his wife first?”

I chuckle, a sound that doesn’t quite reach my throat. “He cried more when I slit the dog’s throat.”

I did not cut the dog’s throat. I’m not a monster. But for some reason, that always scares people more, like only the real sociopaths would murder an innocent animal. I haven’t crossed that line yet.

He struggles again, frantic. His eyes bounce between us—between my silence and Dmitri’s grin.