Page 25 of Bloody Savage God
Mikhail Tsepov doesn’t know what’s coming for him yet, but that’s about to change.
Eric pulls up to the cottage, the gravel crunching beneath the van’s tires. It’s been months since I’ve been here, but it feels like only yesterday. This place has always been my sanctuary, my escape from the world. Not that I get to use it nearly as often as I’d like. And this will be the last time I’ll use it. Because after I finish what I came here to do, the place won’t ever be the same.
I step out of my car and take a deep breath. The cottage is nestled in a clearing, surrounded by towering trees that provide complete privacy. Walking up to the wooden front door, I unlock it and step inside the cold but somehow still cozy interior. The upstairs holds no sign of what’s hidden in the basement, and I see Eric scanning the room with interest. He’s carrying Mikhail over his shoulder. The Russian is still knocked out, which hopefully won’t last much longer.
Now that we are here, I’m eager to get started.
“Come on,” I tell Eric, and lead him to the corner of the massive open space living and kitchen area. There are two bedrooms in the back, as well as a bathroom, but no obvious staircase.
Intentionally so.
The cottage is expensive but understated, with rustic wood paneling and a large fireplace. Right next to the fireplace is a hidden switch. It’s easily concealed under the mantle, and I can feel Eric’s intrigued eyes following every one of my movements as I reach out to pull on the hidden lever.
The bookcase next to the fireplace swings open and I take a step forward. Smirking, I throw a look over my shoulder. “I doubt you’re ready for this.” Then I start down the winding staircase that leads into my personal dungeon.
I can adjust the lighting down here to be as bright or dim as I choose. Unlike the upstairs, the walls down here aren’t wood, but made of a manufactured stone veneer, giving the entire room a somewhat more medieval look. Sometime I enjoy dimming the lights to mimic a sconce lit torture chamber, but today I turn them to full brightness. Like an operating room where forensic pathologists conduct their autopsies.
What’s about to happen isn’t for fun, or rather, it’s not just about fun. This is work, and whenever Mikhail wakes, I need to see exactly where I’m cutting to make sure I can draw this out as long as it takes to get the asshole to spill whatever information he has.
“Damn, girl.” Eric huffs out a laugh. “And they call me fucked up.” His gaze scans the furniture, catching on the St. Andrews cross. It looks like a large X made of wood with red leather upholstery. It is tilted back slightly and has metal rings used to tie someone up against it. There is a spanking bench next to it, again outfitted with bondage hoops, and, in the other corner of the room, a sex chaise lounge. It looks a bit like an oversized eggplant, except that the leather is black, rather than a dark purple.
As expected, bringing Eric down here feels about as weird as it gets, but a single look at the slumped form over his shoulder reminds me of the only thing that matters right now.
Shrugging, I face Eric. “Never said I wasn’t fucked up. But then again, you skin people when you’re bored,” I say, not making it up either.
Eric shrugs. “Yeah, but that’s for work.”
I give him a hard look. “This will be work, too.”
Shaking his head, Eric’s expression softens to something I rarely ever see in him. Compassion. “No, Gianna. This isn’t just work. This is personal. For both of us.”
Avoiding his scrutiny, I turn around and gesture to the one additional piece of equipment in the room, a throne-like chair that is positioned in the middle of the dungeon. “Put him there.”
Eric does what he’s told while I head over to a cabinet to retrieve rope and zip ties. Together we secure Mikhail to the chair, ensuring that the straps are tight enough to cause him some displeasure, but not so tight it’ll cause damage before he’s even conscious.
“He’ll be out for a bit longer. Let’s head upstairs.”
Upstairs, I take a minute to walk around the cottage, taking in all the minor details that make this place so special to me. Looking at the pictures on the mantel, each one depicting memories of past trips, I feel oddly removed from them and it’s a startling reminder of the grief that is still stinging inside my chest. Not that the pictures actually show my father’s face in them. All of them are nature shots, not a single one featuring a person. If anyone came in here, they wouldn’t easily be able to establish who owned the place. But I remember each trip well. Fishing trips to various lakes with my dad and Eric when we were teens, visiting Rome and shaking hands with some of the Italian families operating there, going to Las Vegas to gamble when I turned twenty-one. My dad had flown with me, using the opportunity to have a sit down with some of the Cosa Nostra bosses.
Dismissing my wandering thoughts, I head over to the thermostat and turn up the heat.
“You should eat something,” Eric remarks, heading towards the kitchen area, opening cupboards and drawers to check what we’ve got to work with. If there was one defining feature about Eric other than his violent tendencies, it would be his constant and near insatiable hunger.
Thirty minutes later, we sit down with bowls of canned chili and dinner rolls made from frozen dough. When it doesn’t taste as bad as I expected, I remember I haven’t had a bite to eat in almost forty-eight hours.
“We’ll have to talk about what comes after this.” Eric’s voice is serious and by the way he looks at me, it’s clear I can’t push this discussion off any further, which is ironic since under normal circumstances I would be the one pressing for a strategic planning session, not Eric.
Fortunately, at that moment, my phone rings. The incoming call shows my home phone, so I pick up, hearing my uncle’s voice on the other end of the line.
“How are you?” he asks, keeping his voice intentionally gentle, which pisses me off. Like I’m some doll who needs to be coddled.
“Fine, just taking a day to collect myself.” I hate to use that excuse, as it will only strengthen his belief that women are emotional and easy to distract, but it’s also an easy way to play into his stereotypes and avoid having to answer questions that I’m not yet prepared to address.
If Uncle Mario knew I have Mikheil Tsepov, he would want to be involved. Or rather, he’d want to do the things I have planned himself, cutting me out of the violence. And every fiber in my body is burning with the need for some sort of release.
My uncle makes a humming noise. “I understand. I just want to make sure you know we set everything for the funeral tomorrow.”
The pain in my chest is overwhelming for a second, but I do my best to suppress it. “Yeah, I know.” I’ve been in touch with Mellie, who has organized the whole thing, with no help from my uncle, though I leave that part unsaid.
