Page 131 of Ruthless Creatures

I’ll be sending a clear message that I’m disloyal to our leader and intend to take the throne for myself if I accept Aleksander’s mistake.

Unless it wasn’t a mistake.

Maybe it was a test.

And maybe the test originated from someone much smarter than Aleksander.

My stare freezing and my tone deadly soft, I say, “On your knees.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

In a five-thousand-dollar silk suit, handmade shoes, and an overcoat spun from the wool of baby Tibetan antelopes, he silently sinks to his knees on the cold cement floor of the warehouse.

Then he waits, along with everyone else. Clouds of steam from his breath turn white in the frigid night air.

“Empty your pockets.”

He swallows. Digging into his overcoat pockets, he produces a cell phone and a folded wad of hundred-dollar bills. He tosses them to the floor, then reaches inside his suit jacket. Soon a handgun, afolding knife, a ballpoint pen, and a small comb follow the money and phone to the floor.

The last thing he takes out is a pair of pliers.

He’s about to toss that onto the pile, too, but I say, “Wait.”

He freezes. His gaze flashes up to mine.

I see fear in his eyes, but also resignation.

He already knows what I’m going to ask him to do.

“One of the front ones. And don’t get it fixed. I want your disrespect to Maxim to be visible to everyone.”

He exhales. He looks at the pliers in his hand.

Then he clamps the metal prongs around one of his bicuspids and tears it out.

It’s a prolonged, bloody process. The other men watch with varying degrees of boredom and interest. Pavel checks his watch. Oleg licks his lips. When it’s over, Aleksander is panting and the breast of his suit is soaked in blood.

I gesture for him to stand.

He does, spitting blood onto the floor.

“As I was saying. Our Armenian friend, Mr. Kurdian, has a freighter packed with AKs and ammo arriving into the Port of Houston in two days. The arms will go onto a train headed for Boise. Derail the train. The bigger the explosion, the better.”

He nods. His face is pale and he’s sweating, but he won’t make a peep of pain or show disobedience in any way.

Normally, that would please me. Right now, it just makes me tired.

After spending a week in Natalie’s arms, this life I lead tastes sour.

I give the rest of the men their instructions. When that’s done, I dismiss them. They vanish into the shadows of the warehouse, headed back to their families and territories, spread out all across the US.

Except one that I keep aside.

Mikhail is the youngest member of the Bratva leadership, and also one of the most aggressive and ambitious. He was the underboss for Boston’s family leader but was promoted last year when his boss was assassinated.

Resting a hand on Mikhail’s shoulder, I say, “I’d like your help.”

I see the surprise in his eyes. It’s quickly followed by pride.