Page 214 of Dance of Defiance

“Mr. Nikitin, I don’t think that’s wise.”

I go still at the sound of the second voice—gruff, with a distinctly South African accent.

“I saidcut him loose.”

Hands yank at my wrists. I grunt, blinking again against the harsh light in my eyes as a cold, sharp blade grazes my wrist before it slices through the ropes. My ankles are next, and then the bonds around my thighs.

“Val!” I lurch from my chair and whirl to the right. I'm immediately shoved back down, but I lash out, swinging wildly and jumping up again. This time, I’m rewarded when my fist crashes into soft flesh.

“Fuck!” a voice—also South African—snarls. “Little fucker hit me!”

“I fuckingtold you,” the first voice hisses. “Don't cut him—oh, fuck this.”

I grunt as a fist slams into my stomach, knocking me over.

A scuffle breaks out, and I hear shouting and raised voices, yelling both in English and Russian. Then one louder voice silences them all.

“ENOUGH!” my father booms.

For a second, I feel something I haven’t really felt since mom died—the sense that there’s a parent here who wants what’s best for me. Who’ll protect me.

“Papa—”

The hand slams across my mouth again, sending blood and spit streaking across the floor. I groan as I'm grabbed at the front of my shirt and slammed backward into the chair.

“Sit. The fuck. Down.”

The light is swung away so that it's not shining right in my eyes, and everything comes into focus.

My father stands in front of me, looking at me with such pure hatred that it freezes me for a second. Gunner and his two stooges are right behind. Past them I see Stepan, looking furious. Two of my father’s men are holding him back, his hair messed up and the side of his mouth swelling, like he just got hit.

Guess that was the scuffle.

He looks right at me and shakes his head, his jaw tight. But I can’t really focus on anything right now except…

I choke as I twist my head to the right.

“VAL!”

I lurch from my chair. Instantly, my father’s fist crashes into my jaw, slamming me back down. I tense when I feel the cold blade against my throat.

“Do not fuckingmove,” Papa hisses furiously.

But I barely hear him as I whip my head around to stare at Val.

No.

He’s bound to a chair. Blood drips from his nose and his mouth, and his right eye is purpled and swelling shut. I surge against my father’s grip on my shirt, but when I feel the steel of the blade in his fist bite my skin, I go still.

“Do nottest me, Roman,” he snarls. “With how I feel about you right now?” He turns and spits onto the ground. “Cutting your throat might be amercy.”

My pulse jumps as I glare up into his face.

We’re in a dingy, windowless basement, with half-smashed café tables and chairs shoved into one corner and a couple of utterly foul, grimy couches against the wall. Pinup posters of nude women are tacked up, and a makeshift bar made from plywood is littered with various bottles of alcohol, with a microwave and an electric tea kettle at one end.

I know this place.

It’s the old nightclub.