Page 59 of Ruthless Vow
News reaches me of the wedding day rapidly approaching, and only Sergei can calm me down. The information of where is only provided to invitees, and I clearly didn’t make the guest list. I’m forced to get the location the ugly way.
I have my men take a Grinkov runner off the street in Bensonhurst two nights after the breach. He’s a courier who thinks he’s important because he gets to carry envelopes and deliver quiet orders. He’s the kind of man who feels powerful because he gets to invoke Mikhail’s name and see people squirm. In reality, he’s a nobody with no backbone.
I watch on a surveillance camera as he starts crying the moment my men grab him, and doesn’t stop as they put a black bag over his head. He screams like a little bitch as Misha pulls him into the back of the van and shuts the door.
They bring him to a property I don’t use often, an old garage that looks abandoned from the outside. Sergei’s declined to be part of this. He thinks I’m taking the violence too far, so I’ve let him off the hook for now. He’s in Brighton Beach doing damage control while I take care of the mess.
I walk in and see the runner tied to a chair, hood still on. His wrists are bound behind him and his ankles are zip-tied to the chair legs. He’s sweating hard enough that I can smell it from across the room.
Misha steps closer to me and keeps his voice low.
“He’s been quiet for most of the ride,” he tells me. “He says he’s ready to talk, but only to you.”
“I’m here,” I say, loud enough for the runner to hear.
Misha nods and steps back.
I circle the man slowly. I don’t rush. I don’t shout. I want to really let him stew in his fear. I want him to wonder if any second could be his last. I finally grab the hood and yank it off after a minute.
He blinks hard under the harsh light and tries to lift his chin, but his throat bobs when he swallows and his eyes are red from crying. He’s young, only in his mid-twenties at most. He has a clean haircut and a new, expensive jacket. He’s trying to look tougher than he is, but the crying gave that away.
“You’re Viktor Kovalev,” he breathes out with the appropriate amount of reverence.
“I am,” I answer.
He forces a laugh, though it comes out weak. “Mikhail is going to?—”
“What?” I ask him harshly. “Tell me what your boss plans to do to me, and I promise that you’ll get the same treatment.”
He swallows hard and shuts his mouth. I pull a chair from the corner and sit in front of him, close enough that I can hear hisshallow breathing. My elbows rest on my knees. My gun stays holstered. I don’t need it yet.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He hesitates, then answers. “Pavel.”
“Pavel,” I repeat. “How long have you worked for Mikhail Grinkov?”
He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but his eyes keep darting to my hands. “Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say patiently.
He exhales sharply. “A few months.”
That’s nothing. He’s not even been with the organization long enough to be considered for brotherhood. His pride is his biggest weakness, which means I can easily exploit it.
“What do you do for him?” I ask.
“I run messages,” he says.
“Who do you report to?” I ask.
His jaw tightens. “No one.”
I stare at him for a moment, then nod once. “You can lie if you want. It just costs you precious time, and you don’t have much left.”
He keeps his mouth shut.
I stand and walk to a metal table by the wall. There are tools laid out neatly. I like to be organized in situations like this. I pick up a pair of pliers and set them down again. Then I pick up a bottle of water and walk back over.
