Page 11 of Twisted Proposal

"I didn't think you were, but I don't like hearing that people who want to be in business with me are so untrustworthy."

Zaitsev opened and closed his mouth several times before reaching for the shot and knocking it back. His throat worked as he swallowed, a grimace twisting his features. Vladan refilled the glass as Zaitsev wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, wincing when the vodka burned his busted lip.

"What are Solovyov's plans?" I asked.

"I don't know the details."

I picked up bullet number three, rolling it between my fingers. The weight of it so satisfying. He started shaking, his knees knocking beneath the table.

"I swear I don't. He never told me shit, only that he wanted to take American territory, and he thinks the best way to do that is to separate you from Gregor. He says the American family is too weak to stand on its own without the Russian side."

"Those would be details." I shook my head and clicked the third bullet into place. "Try to answer my questions the first time I ask."

Zaitsev picked up the shot glass again, his hands shaking so badly that vodka sloshed over the rim, spilling onto his fingers and over the table, forming small, clear puddles that reflected the overhead lights.

"Who else has Solovyov hired?"

"No one else like us. Only hitmen from back in Moscow, and I think he has a few senators who are on the take, but I swear I don't know which ones."

I tapped the fourth bullet on the table, letting the metallic clink shake Zaitsev's nerves even more.

"What happened to Dima?"

The eldest Zaitsev son used to keep his lunatic father and brother in line, but I'd heard he was killed a few years back. Since then they had become hazardous liabilities. Unfortunately, until now, they had not done anything overt enough to warrant Gregor sanctioning a hit on them.

"He died in a deal gone bad." Zaitsev's hands shook even more as he reached for the bottle.

Vladan pulled it out of his reach before he refilled the shot glass.

I slid bullet number four home. The cylinder rotated with smooth, well-oiled precision.

"That's how he died. I swear it. I don't know who did it, I could never get anyone to talk about who?—"

His words stopped as I slid bullet number five home. The click all but a death sentence.

"It's the truth. It was a drug deal gone bad. I had him picking up coke from the Colombians and?—"

I picked up the last bullet and slid it in place before spinning the barrel and flicking it closed.

The sound was final, definitive. The air in the room seemed to still, as if holding its breath.

"No, no. I'm telling you the truth. He stepped out and was working for the Colombians and I–I didn't know. They killed him before I could get him back in line." He was rambling now, and it was all bullshit.

That meant his fear wasn't strong enough, yet.

It was easy enough to change that.

I stared Zaitsev in the eye as I raised the gun to his face.

He was a sweating, swearing mess. Pleading for his life like the pathetic little man he was. Spittle flew from his lips as he begged over and over, his words tumbling over one another in their rush to escape.

Without breaking eye contact, I swung my hand around and fired, putting a single bullet in the head of his youngest son.

The sound was deafening in the small space. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the coppery scent of fresh blood. Junior's body slumped to the side, a dark stain spreading across the concrete beneath him.

"No," Zaitsev screamed. He tried to get up, but my men held him in place, their fingers digging into his shoulders. "You'll pay for that."

Flecks of white gathered at the corners of his lips as he screamed, veins bulging at his temples. Perhaps putting him down tonight would be the more humane thing to do.