Page 63 of Forced into a Bratva Marriage
I watched him sink into the couch across from me.
“How long have you been working with the Sokolov Syndicate?”
His breath hitched, his eyes looking everywhere but at my face. “I…I don’t…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A pause.
“I have proof…Igor,” I stated, my gaze unwavering. “So don’t you lie to me.”
A bead of cold sweat tricked down the side of his head, his feet tapping restlessly against the floor. “Look, I can explain….”
“That’s not why I’m here.” My voice, sharp like a blade, interrupted him.
His eyes squinted, a glint of confusion flickering beneath. “Why…why are you here, then?”
The fine leather crunched beneath me as I leaned in, watching him with deadly intent. “I want you to repeat what you said yesterday.”
His throat bobbled.
“Look me in the eye and repeat what you said about my wife,” I growled, my blood boiling with fury.
“Uh…um….” He cleared his throat. “About—about that. I crossed a line, and I shouldn’t have,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry.”
His stupid apology only aggravated me and worsened his case.
“Do you know what I hate more than traitors, Igor?”
Silence.
“Cowards—spinless bastards who can’t fess up and own their shit.” I rose to my feet, slowly shedding my jacket. “So I’ll tell you again. Repeat what you said about my wife. Say it to my face.”
By now, he was already on his feet as well, his eyes scanning the room.
“Listen, Karik, we can settle this like two adults.” His voice trembled. “Let’s—let’s talk this out.”
The closer I drew, the more he retreated like a scared little chicken.
Igor knew he didn’t stand a chance against me in a hand-to-hand combat. That’s why he was so afraid.
His back hit the edge of a table behind him, causing the lamp on the surface to shake violently. He glanced at it and, in a split second, thought it would serve as a makeshift weapon. Igor reached for the lamp and swung it at me.
My hand shot out in a heartbeat, catching his wrist midair. I saw the horror in his eyes as he realized he’d just made a wrong move. He groaned in pain as I twisted his arm, my grip so tight it dug into his flesh.
“Argh! Fuck!”
He tried to throw a punch, a rather flimsy one. I dodged it effortlessly, retaliating with a powerful slap that knocked him down.
I grabbed him by the collar and began hurling punches in his face, each strike harder than the last. His words during that meeting echoed in my head, fueling my anger.
“How dare you…talk…about…my wife…the way…you did?” I growled, my fist smashing his face after each pause.
He pleaded, but his voice was faint, his arms too weak to retaliate or defend himself.
Those irritating words fell on deaf ears because I didn’t stop. I kept hurling punches even though his nose was broken and his face was battered beyond recognition.
The impact of my fist crushing his bones made my knuckles hurt. But the pain was nothing compared to the satisfaction of watching him suffer.
I dented his skull into the edge of the table multiple times until his head cracked open. A dark, sluggish ribbon began unfurling from his hairline, tracing the curve of his temple. His body jerked once. Twice. Then stopped.
