Page 6 of Forced Bratva Kidnapped Virgin
“Take a deep breath, son.” I stared at him, breathing in and out.
He breathed with me—in through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Good. Very good.”
Calmer and more relaxed, he let a faint, skeptical grin creep onto his lips.
“Now, answer my questions correctly, and I promise Boris here won’t chop your head off.” I glanced up at my lieutenant’s mean face.
He met the man’s cold eyes and swallowed hard, his pulse racing.
“Where’s my money?” I asked.
He shifted his gaze back to me. “Stashed away in an abandoned warehouse at the docks.”
“How much did you steal?”
Viktor paused, stealing a nervous glance at the tall, muscular man standing over him.
“I told you, Boris isn’t going to hurt you.” I massaged his shoulder. “So talk to me. How much did you steal?”
“Half a million dollars.”
“Okay. That’s good. You’re an honest thief.” I nodded, curling my lips into an even broader smile. “Is anyone else involved in this theft?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Andrea, Ilya, and Mikhail.”
“Hmm. Interesting.” I rose to my feet. “That wasn’t hard, was it?”
His silence was tinged with unease.
“Rise,” I said, standing at least a foot away.
He struggled but eventually got on his feet.
I looked at Boris and nodded. He got the message and revealed a switchblade, then marched toward Viktor.
Terrified, Viktor’s eyes widened. “You promised he wasn’t going to harm me.”
“Relax,” I said, steadily tugging at my gloves, one finger at a time. “He’s just trying to cut you loose.”
Boris went around him and sliced through the zip ties that held him bound with a sharp blade. Baffled, he looked at me, rolling his wrists in a massaging motion.
“I am a man of my words, Viktor,” I said, peeling off my black gloves. My bare hands were revealed, exposing my bruised knuckles, marred with faint scars.
Relief washed over his face. “He’s not going to cut my head off?”
“No,” I replied, meeting his gaze as my countenance turned cold and menacing. “I am.”
His eyes widened with terror. And before he could make sense of what was happening, Boris shoved him toward me. My fist connected with his jawbone, the impact knocking out a tooth.
I seized his hand and pulled him close enough to jab my forehead into his face. His nose shattered in an instant. With a single twist, I snapped his elbow like a twig, reveling in his screams.
My fingers clasped around his throat, and I lifted him inches above the ground. Seconds later, I slammed his back against the nearest car. He fell toward the back tire, groaning, straining to breathe.
“You dare steal from me?!” I kicked him in the face multiple times, my boot denting his head into the burnt rubber.
I grabbed the back door handle and yanked it open. Then I forced his neck between the door's lower edge and the car’s sharp baseline.
