Page 24 of Bloody Savage God
Behind me, I hear Boris curse in Russian and then athunk. I fight the instinct to turn around and check on my man, too aware of the actual threat. Gianna. Underestimating her is a bad idea, and it looks like I’ve already done that.
My eyes take her in, watching for the telltale move of her going for her gun. She’s athletic and strong, but in a full on physical altercation against me she would most definitely loose, so her best bet is to use a weapon, which is why she takes me by surprise when she starts forward, closing the distance between us.
Knife.
It’s the next logical choice of weapon. One she is known for. Except, instead of lunging to plunge a blade into my gut, she spins and aims a kick at my knee. I sidestep the maneuver, but I can’t quite help stare at her face, mesmerized by the violence I see there. She is so fucking hot, it’s hard to concentrate, and before I know it, she follows her initial attack up with a round kick to my groin.
Again, I step out of her reach, but it’s like a bad game of tag, where she keeps coming at me while I avoid her, and it is time I stop this. Under different circumstances, I may have enjoyed sparring with Gianna, but I’m too aware that her man is also a concern.
Right now, my back is to the alley wall, which is both protection and hindrance as I need to deal with the Italian goddess who is hell bound on taking me down. I move forward, closing the distance Gianna allowed me to build. Pulling my arm back, I let my fist fly, momentarily upset by the thought of ruining her pretty face.
But this is work, not play, and I’m not about to let the Bruno syndicate get the better of me.
Except, the second before my fist makes contact, something stings the side of my neck. As Gianna stumbles back, her lip split and red blooming across the side of her face, I see her holding a needle, which she quickly throws behind her.
Godfuckingdammit.
I go to lunge at her, but already my mind feels hazy. Still, I reach for her, getting a hold of the front of her shirt, pulling her toward me. As I let go to wrap my hands around her pretty neck, she punches me in the side of the jaw, a hard object connecting with my face, adding to the haze even more.
A ring, I realize, right before brawny arms grab me from behind. I struggle, but it’s already clear I’m not winning this one. The only question is, what could Gianna want with me when she doesn’t know she’s already threatened my balls in all sorts of ways?
The uncomfortable truth is, a woman like her isn’t likely to limit herself to mere threats. And that’s the last thought I have before darkness envelops me.
Chapter Nine
Gianna
Isinkintothepassenger seat. It’s rare I don’t drive myself, but I need the hours it’ll take us to get to our destination to plan. In my current state, I may very well overlook some police car cruising around or get caught in some random police check. Explaining away the drugged and bound man in the back seat might not go as smoothly as one would hope.
“Where to?” Eric asks pointedly. He wasn’t impressed when I didn’t share this piece of the plan with him earlier. I don’t blame him. Our family is built and bound by trust and loyalty. To cut him out of part of the plan is as big an affront as outright telling him I don’t trust him, but to his credit, he hasn’t complained, willing to ride this out with me.
“Head to the four hundred towards Barrie,” I tell him, referencing the highway that leads north out of Toronto.
Eric doesn’t speak again until we’re on the highway, stuck in traffic like every other poor soul in the area who made the questionable decision to drive a vehicle today. “Are you going to tell me what’s next now?” He keeps his voice casual, but it’s clear he’s reaching the limit of his patience. Eric has a short fuse and I have no doubt he’s nearly as anxious as me to let his aggression out on someone soon, but he’ll have to wait his turn.
Maybe I’ll let him brutalize the corpse after I’m done with Mikhail.
As if Mikhail’s in sync with my thoughts, a groan sounds from the backseat. I don’t bother turning around. The Russian is trussed up like a turkey for thanksgiving, not to mention the Propofol in his system that I used to drug him with. No way can he do anything other than moan and I really don’t want to look at him again.
My body’s reaction to his voice isn’t something I’m feeling comfortable with. Nor the way his body sparks lust, rather than disgust. Life in the mafia might have messed me up, but that level of messed up is new.
“We’re headed to a cottage I own near Lake Simcoe,” I explain to Eric, who is bound to lose his temper any minute if I don’t fill him in, his hands already tapping the steering wheel in an impatient rhythm. “The basement has a special set-up.”
I keep my voice level, though my cousin knowing about my personal dungeon room isn’t something I would have chosen under different circumstances. Gutting a man together? Sure, that’s good family bonding, but admitting I occasionally get off on taking a stranger out of town to have my way with them? Well, that crosses a boundary that I felt quite happy with.
“I’m going to string Mikhail Tsepov up like a pig and make him bleed until I know everything he has done to get to my father. And then he’ll die.”
Eric nods like that is a perfectly normal occurrence. To an extent, violence and even murder have been part of our lives since childhood, but torture doesn’t happen as often as the movies might have you believe. Which doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what I’ll do to Mikhail. I’ve been fantasizing about it every quiet minute since seeing my father’s blood drain over the dirty floor of that old office building.
“And after that?”
“My father’s funeral,” I say. It’s not what Eric wants to know, and I’m aware of that, but I’m not ready to discuss the fact that I am going to have to take my father’s place now that he’s gone. It might not be an enormous step given I already run most of the business, but it wasn’t something I had expected to happen for quite a few years, and this sudden change doesn’t feel right just yet.
My father is dead.The words still feel foreign.
We drive for another hour until we reach my cottage, hidden at the end of a long driveway in the middle of the thick forest area bordering Lake Simcoe. I roll my window down, but instead of the pine scent that usually envelops me when I arrive here from the city, I can already smell the blood that I’m about to spill.
Manifestation at its best.
