Page 88 of The Bonventi War

"Let's try this again," I say, voice calm. I lean down, bringing my face close to his. "Mikhail Petrov and Viktor Sokolov. What can you tell me about them?"

His good eye darts around frantically. "I—I don't know much, I swear."

I straighten up, rolling my neck to ease the tension. "But you do know them."

"Yes," he admits, his accent thick with fear. "They are important men."

"How important?" I press.

He swallows hard. "No one really talks to Viktor. He stays away, gives orders through Mikhail."

These are the men responsible for putting Raven through hell. For burning down her gallery. For trying to take her from me. I hate saying their names, but I know it's so I can make sure death finds them.

"And Mikhail? Tell me about him."

"He handles security for Viktor, keeps the docks safe for shipments." His words come faster now, desperate to provide something valuable. "He has men everywhere. Police, city officials. He's Viktor's right hand."

I file away each detail, constructing a mental map of their operation, but I need more.

"What do they want with Ravenna Carvello?"

The man's eye widens at the mention of Raven's name. "The woman? That artist or whatever?"

"Yes," I say, my voice low. "What do they want with her?"

Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait for his answer. The mere thought of another man wanting her makes my vision blur with rage. Raven is marked as mine in ways these bastards could never understand.

He licks his bloody lips. "Viktor was mad. Her father stole a lot of money. Promised daughter as payment."

The rage that's been simmering beneath my skin threatens to boil over. I take a deep, steadying breath.

"And what else?" I press, circling behind him. "What else do you know about their operation?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing! I just move packages. I'm not high enough."

"How do I find them? Where are they based?"

"I don't know," he whimpers. "I swear. We get calls, we go where told. Mikhail moves around. No one knows where Viktor stays."

I stand silent for a moment, watching him squirm. He's served his purpose, given me what little information he has. And yet, it's not nearly enough to satisfy the rage burning inside me. Not enough to protect what's mine.

I turn to my men, voice cold. "Kill him."

The man starts thrashing in his chair. "No! Please! I told you everything!"

I don't look back as I walk away. "Make it quick."

I have no patience for this foot soldier. Every second spent here is a second away from her.

I push through the heavy door into the cool night air, inhaling deeply. My black Rolls-Royce idles nearby, its headlights cutting through the darkness. My driver opens the door as I approach.

Next stop, Enzo's place.

I stride into Enzo's office, the blood of the Russian foot soldier speckling the bottom of my shirt.

Marco sits in one of the leather armchairs, his face stoic as he looks up at me. Enzo stands behind his mahogany desk, palms flat against its polished surface, leaning forward.

"Well?" Enzo asks.