Page 188 of Nothing More

He took a few more breaths, more awake, now, his vision nearly clear. The floor was seesawing under him like the deck of a ship, but he figured he had a concussion and there was nothing to be done for that at the moment. “If you’re trying to imitate your old man,” he said, “there was a lot less posturing and talking and a lot more slicing.” If goading him into moving things along quicker worked, he figured it was his due: he should have died years ago, the night he shot Oleg and his goons. When looked at that way, he’d been living on borrowed time ever since.

Rosovsky’s head tilted to a sharp, birdlike angle. His pupils shrank visibly, hair come loose from its gel and falling over them. He didn’t look human in that moment: like something alien and bloodthirsty wearing a man-suit.

Toly shuddered despite himself.

And of course Rosovsky saw. His gaze flickered side to side, and when he moved, it was with a sudden burst of speed. He withdrew a knife from a hidden sheath at the small of his back, a harshsnickof steel on leather, like the hiss of a snake, and he lunged forward. In the split second it took Rosovsky to cross the floor toward him, Toly’s thoughts flashed to Raven. The way she smiled at him; the joy in her kiss, the harsh, relieved press of her breath into his mouth after he’d told her he loved her. At least, he thought, he’d known what it felt like to love someone that way before he died. Then Rosovsky had hold of his hair again, and the knife’s edge pricked at the skin of his exposed throat.

He braced himself for the pain, but refused to close his eyes, looking up into his killer’s face.

The killing slice didn’t come, though.

Rosovsky stood over him, nostrils flaring on a harsh breath, hand steady on the knife. Then he smiled, and his posture relaxed, all save his hands, which still gripped tight and sure, hair and knife.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said, “and it won’t work. I might know my old man’s trade – he taught me at his hip, when I was just a boy – but I’ve got more control than him. I’msmarter.” He pulled back, then. The knife – a good ten inches – flicked away with a deft, expert movement, and he resumed his slouch up against the cabinet. “I’ve got orders,” he said.

Curious despite himself, Toly said, “Who from?”

Rosovsky frowned, and then feigned the dawn of understanding; put on a big, false pout.Poor Toly. “You still don’t understand, do you? Poor thing. From Misha. Who else? I told you: I’m smarter than my father. I’m not a solo artist.” He pushed his sleeve up further, and twisted his arm, so the pale inside of it faced Toly. Just beneath the inside of his elbow sat a familiar tattoo, one that Toly still possessed, in the same place, the one he’d never been able to black over or convert into a new design. The K for Kozlov bratva.

In a voice that verged on sympathetic, Rosovsky said, “A lot happened in Moscow after you left. Really, a lot was going on while you were still there that you never knew about.”

The swaying, ship-deck sensation intensified. “You’re bratva?”

“If things had worked out differently, we could have been brothers.” Sad little smile that quickly fell away, the swap between moods quick as the drop of a theater curtain. “But we both know how things did work out. Traitor. You understand, don’t you, that Misha was never working with you? That he doesn’t trust you, and he never will? I’ve been his man all along, doing what he’s told me to –cutting upwho he told me to.”

Toly swallowed with difficulty. “Yeah. I get it.”

Pale brows lifted. “But have you figured outwhy?”

“To get me here in this room with you.”

“No. Well, partly. He wants you gone, because you’re two-faced scum, yes. He always knew you weren’t bratva material, even when you were a kid. Me getting to carve you up is just a bonus for me, personally.” Hand to heart, bow of his head, as though giving thanks for a gift. He straightened and added, “But having you here now is about yourclub.” He spat the word, face flooding with disgust.

Then the smile returned. “Your president will want to negotiate for your safe return, because the club is soft. It gives Misha the opportunity to thank him, personally, for the raid back in September.”

“I’m bait.”

“Essentially. But you’ve made it so much easier. Getting that bitch Raven to go all stupid over you. She’ll be twisting all the men’s arms, telling them they have to get you back.” His smile was more a rictus, all his teeth bared. “Love. What a wonderful thing.”

~*~

“Eat that.” Devin shoved her plate an inch closer across the table. “You’ll feel better.”

Raven failed to see how a plate of runny eggs and toast would help anything, and she pushed it back.

He sighed through his nose. “That’s mature.”

She reached for her coffee and returned her attention to the screen of the TV mounted above the diner’s front counter. The news about the raid on Misha’s house had broken right after they’d ordered their food – or, well, after Devin had ordered for both of them, since her stomach was still churning and she’d refused to eat – and two of the waitresses behind the counter were glued to the coverage.

So was Raven, but not out of rubber-necking fascination, the way they were.

“…we’re told police have discovered the remains ofseveral victimsin the home’s carriage house,”the grave-faced on-scene report was saying to the camera, free hand over her ear in an effort to block out the chatter of the police behind her. The shot was narrow, and so the exact location was impossible to decipher, but Raven saw beautifully-aged brick walls, a wrought iron gate, and, through it, beyond a line of fluttering yellow tape, a whole host of police and official crews moving back and forth. She saw the back end of a van disgorging technicians in white coveralls and face masks. Another reporter appeared to be trying to edge into the shot, and the first one shot him a brief, dirty look before continuing.“It’s too early to say for sure, but it appears as though the home you see behind me is currently being used by some sort of international crime organization, one that is trafficking young women. We were able to determine the building’s been leased by a man named Pyotr Petrov. It’s unclear, but there’s a chance thesehorrificcrimes are the work of the Russian mafia.”

Devin snorted. “‘Russian mafia.’ Like that’s some sort of monolith.”

Raven didn’t have the energy to point out that most people lacked his expertise and knowledge of criminal organizations. “Pyotr Petrov,” she mused. “He’s used a fake name to lease the house – probably to get into the country as well. Melissa said his real name didn’t ping the system.”

“Ifthe one Toly gave us is his real name,” Devin countered. “Men like us sometimes don’t even have real names.”