Page 29 of Bloody Savage God
Again, I see a momentary flash of hesitation in her face. She isn’t stupid, and I would wager that if she hadn’t been grief stricken, she would have asked herself these questions before kidnapping me. The peace between our families is definitely over, but I sure as hell wasn’t the one who caused that rift.
I can’t deny I’m a little curious about who orchestrated all of this, because it’s looking like I’ll owe them a visit myself. They not only got me into this mess, but they also pulled the Bratva into a conflict with the Italians. Something, my father would be quick to point out, we don’t have enough man-power for at the moment.
And perhaps I’ll also owe whoever set me up an additional visit for the pain I’m about to receive.
If I make it out of here.
“Tell me how you found out where my father went that night.” Gianna’s voice is steady and confident, none of her hesitation showing now.
The question is like the flaming piece of the puzzle burning to find its place. Who would know where Leonardo Bruno was at all times?
When I don’t answer, she cuts through my pants and digs the knife into my upper thigh. The pain mixed with the relief that she didn’t cut open my shirt, exposing the thin white lines of the G where my skin has almost healed but her initial remains visible, has me grinning up at her.
“Small talk is over, is it?”
Gianna
Mikhail Tsepov isn’t what I expected. As I run my knife across his leg, drawing blood, all the while cutting through the fabric of his pants, he stares up at me, keeping eye contact as if he doesn’t feel anything. As if he feels none of the pain I’m inflicting on him.
It’s driving me crazy, wanting to break through his façade of perfect calm. Wanting to break him, I give him an icy stare and keep running the knife down his leg, allowing his blood to soak the sharp edge of my blade.
Talk about getting wet.
I’m eerily reminded of the stubborn masochist I dealt with at Club Steel. Except, the thought of Mikhail mingling with the rich and important at Club Steel is laughable. He’s street trash, even if the Tsepovs have money to spare nowadays.
My hand has eased upward, relieving some of the pressure I used to drag the knife through the Russian’s skin, and I quickly visualize the image of my father’s spilled blood, pressing down harder again, taking my energy from the anger that comes with that visualization. The cut deepens as I draw closer to his knee and I finally see a small flinch in his cheek. The satisfaction I get from that tiny movement would be disconcerting to anyone else, but I welcome it. It’s a familiar emotion, unlike the turmoil that’s been ruling my head for the past week.
And unlike the sexual arousal I feel at what I’m doing.
It’s such a wrong feeling that part of me is disgusted with myself. It’s one thing to get off on causing pain, that’s just what it is, but this is about revenge, nothing more. I’m not like the Russian savage in front of me who probably gets off on raping women.
“Tell me how you knew where my father would be that night.”
Mikhail looks me square in the eyes. “I didn’t know. And I didn’t need to know because I didn’t want to kill your father, nor did I do it.”
It’s the first time he has outright denied doing it. Every other time he’s responded to my questions with one of his own. Each one pointed, as if it should be something entirely obvious.
His constant questions are more than a little annoying.
I run the knife lower until I reach his knee, changing the angle of the blade to press the tip into the groove created by his knee cap.
“Then where were you Friday night?”
Something in his expression changes, but I can’t read it.
“Why don’t you ask yourself where your uncle or your cousin were?” he answers, derailing my irritation.
“What are you implying?” I snarl my question at him, even as I know exactly what he is saying.
“Come on, Gianna, you’re smarter than this.” The arrogance in his tone is maddening, and yet some part of my brain is wondering whether he might have a point.
“Okay, let’s play this out then. Tell me what you think went down.” Whatever it takes to get him talking, even if I feel myself resistant to listening to what he’s suggesting. Because that would mean I’m in deeper shit than I already figured.
Mikhail smirks, and my hand flies out to slap him. A red handprint blooms across his cheek, but instead of looking taken aback, his eyes turn molten.
What the actual fuck?
It almost looks like he’s getting off on it, which is messed up, except my own pussy clenches as well, feeling the sting of the slap all the way down to my core.
