Page 6

ROMAN

I locked eyes with Pavel.

A silent message passed between us—quick and sharp.

By the way his gaze hardened and his jaw clenched, I knew he understood. He knew why this had to happen.

Pavel could take whatever I gave him.

He was the one who taught me how to throw a punch… and how to take one.

But that was when I was fifteen—before I shot up in height and packed on a hundred pounds of muscle to put behind every strike.

This wasn’t about punishment.

It was theater. Survival. And I hated every second of it.

As if being locked up, away from his pregnant wife, wasn’t hell enough.

I just hoped, when this was all over, he’d forgive me.

Pavel sneered at me then—that cold, cruel smile he usually saved for our enemies.

I smirked right back and slowly peeled off my jacket, setting it aside on the one cleanish corner of the table. I unbuttoned my sleeves, rolling them up to my forearms.

“So you think a cheesy demon tattoo makes you a killer? Fuck off.”

His words were pure venom. “I’m not telling you or that ice queen cunt a goddamn thing. You can go to hell and take the rest of the goat fuckers with you.”

Yeah. He understood. He was playing along.

This wasn’t our first time pulling something like this.

But the last time, I was the one being pinned down—and Pavel was the one doing the hitting.

We were teenagers. Some other family thought they’d score points with the Ivanovs by wiping out the half-breed disgrace.

We were outnumbered, and too young to matter.

If Pavel hadn’t stood up for me, we’d both be dead.

But between blows he got a weapon in my hand. And once I was free…we burned that place to the ground.

One of those racist fucks called my father a goat fucker. It didn’t even make sense—it just stuck in my mind. And in Pavel’s too, apparently.

The tattoo he mentioned was on my hand. Tribal. Disguised. But if you knew the reference, you knew.

I got it on my eighteenth birthday. Pavel took me out, got me drunk, and thought it was hilarious to turn our grandmother’s insult into ink.

That night, I decided her slur wouldn’t define me. It would strengthen me.

I was the Ivanov demon. The devil’s own son, sent to protect our family’s interests.

Pavel was telling me he remembered. He was ready to play his part.

It helped. A little.

Didn’t stop the guilt, though, as I took the knife from the green-eyed girl and tossed it aside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“You want answers. If I use that, I’ll kill him. Besides… you want proof you can trust me, printsessa . Let me show you how I get answers.”

She looked me up and down. Lips tight. One brow lifted.

“Don’t call me that. And was that Russian? Who are you?”

“I told you who I am.” I silently cursed myself for slipping.

“Are you Russian?” she asked, stepping between Pavel and me.

I almost lied. Almost.

But something about her stopped me. Lying to her felt wrong.

“Do I look Russian?”

Her eyes narrowed. She stepped aside, still calculating. She didn’t trust me—but she liked what she saw.

I smirked, then drove a punch into Pavel’s face.

His head snapped back. The loud crack of bone echoed in the room as blood burst from his nose.

The pain in my knuckles almost drowned out the guilt twisting in my gut. I couldn’t hold back.

If I pulled a single punch, they’d know. We’d both be dead.

Pavel started swearing in two languages, vowing to murder me the second he got free.

Honestly? I wasn’t entirely sure it was just for show.

I had to clench my jaw to stop from laughing.

Same threats he used when we were kids. Any time he lost, he’d swear vengeance—switching languages like it gave his fury more weight.

I didn’t wait for him to stop. Another solid punch landed in his gut, just missing any vital organs.

Had to look real.

Didn’t mean I wanted him pissing red for a week.

The broken nose was already enough.

The others stood behind me.

The girl folded her arms and stared straight ahead, refusing to look away—like she had something to prove.

Mateo stood just behind her, a sick grin on his face like he was getting off on the show.

The rest of Los Infideles looked somewhere between bored and uncomfortable, a few wincing with every blow.

I didn’t need to prove I was strong.

Anyone with eyes could see it.

Even Zoya knew that.

What I needed to prove was that I could be trusted—while lying straight to their faces.

I grabbed Pavel by the hair, yanking his head back.

“You could make this easier,” I said. “Just tell the pretty girl what she needs to know.”

“Fuck you.” He spat—and a mouthful of blood and phlegm hit my cheek.

Really?

I wiped it off and backhanded him hard enough to knock him over, chair and all.

A chunk of wood splintered off, hitting the caged bulb above us.

The light swung wildly, throwing shadows across the room like something out of a horror film.

Couldn’t have timed it better if I’d planned it.

One more punch to his shoulder knocked him flat. I followed with a few sharp kicks to his side.

Yeah… he was definitely going to feel that tomorrow.

I felt bad.

Just not as bad as I would’ve if he hadn’t spit on me.

Pavel kept cursing, but the busted chair loosened the ropes. He had his arms again.

I dropped to one knee, grabbed him by the throat, and pressed him to the floor.

“Boot,” I mouthed, before slamming my fist into the side of his face—just shy of the knockout spot.

I rose again and kicked him one last time.

This time, he wrapped his body around my leg, holding tight.

Perfect.

I struggled, just enough to sell it.

While he reached into my boot and slipped the folding knife from my ankle sheath.

The next time I kicked, he rolled away.

“Would you stop playing?” Mateo said.

For one split second, I thought he’d noticed.

“What do you need to know?” I asked, ignoring him. My focus stayed locked on Zoya.

She was the one that mattered.

She tilted her head. “Let’s start with the senators,” she said, her voice casual and cold. “Which ones answer when the Ivanovs call?”

I turned back to Pavel, grabbed his shirt, and hauled him upright into a new chair.

Leaning close, I whispered, “Almost done.”

He sneered at Zoya. “Fuck you,” he said. But I knew he’d heard me.

I kept my body between him and the others as the swinging light cast us in darkness for a heartbeat—just long enough for him to tuck the knife into his sleeve.

No matter how they tied him down again, he had steel now.

I had to trust him. Trust that I’d done enough.

It was his move.

“I suggest you tell the girl what she needs to know,” I said.

“Fuck you too, asshole,” he muttered, voice slurring just enough.

His eyes stayed focused. Pupils normal.

No concussion. He was still playing the part.

“He’s an Ivanov, ma’am. They’re impossible to break. Stubborn Russian fuckers. Ice and vodka in their veins. If I hit him again, I risk a brain bleed.”

Zoya shrugged, like we were discussing the weather. “Then give him time to reconsider his options. Starvation and pain tend to loosen tongues.”

I nodded and stepped away.

Pavel slumped in his chair.

Battered and bruised.

Steel pressed to his wrist.

I turned my back on him.

He had what he needed.

Now it was up to him.

More importantly…this game was just beginning.