13: The Penance of Mikhail

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

POV: Dante Moretti

The "Special Room" was located three levels below the Moretti estate, encased in six feet of reinforced concrete and soundproofed with industrial-grade foam. It was a place where time ceased to exist, and where the only currency was truth.

I stood in the observation gallery, looking through the one-way glass at Mikhail Volkov. He was strapped to a steel chair in the center of the room, the flickering overhead light casting long, skeletal shadows across his bruised face. He looked smaller without his giants. He looked like what he was: a man who had gambled his life on a "pampered prince" and lost.

The door behind me opened. I didn't have to look to know it was Julian. His scent was that of expensive soap and a faint, sharp tang of ozone from the casino, preceding him.

"You should be in bed," I said, my eyes never leaving Mikhail. "The doctor said you have a concussion."

"The doctor said I had a mild concussion," Julian corrected, stepping up beside me. He leaned his hands on the metal railing, looking down into the pit. "Besides, I couldn't sleep. Not while he’s still breathing the same air as me."

I turned to look at him. He was wearing one of my black silk robes, the fabric pooling at his feet, making him look deceptively fragile. But his eyes were like flint.

"You wanted to see the Butcher at work, Julian," I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous warning. "This isn't a gala. It isn't a boardroom audit. This is the foundation of my empire. This is how I ensure that no one, not the Russians, not the Irish, and certainly not your brothers, ever thinks about touching what belongs to me again."

Julian didn't flinch. "I’m not a child, Dante. I grew up in a house where men were taken to the back garden and never came back. I know what you are. I just want to know if you're man enough to let me watch."

I studied him for a moment. Most men would be sick. Most would beg for mercy on behalf of the prisoner. But Julian was different. He was a Vane, and the Vanes were built on a different kind of darkness, one of betrayal and cold calculation.

"Fine," I said. "Stay here. Don't speak. Don't move."

I walked out of the gallery and down the stairs. The air grew colder the deeper I went. I pushed open the heavy steel door to the interrogation room. The scent of copper and bleach hit me instantly.

Mikhail looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "Moretti," he wheezed. "You... you always were a man of excessive theater."

"And you always were a man of poor judgment, Mikhail," I said, pulling a rolling stool toward the chair. I sat down, inches from him. I didn't reach for the tray of tools. I just looked at him.

"You touched my husband," I said quietly. "You put your hands on his throat. You thought you could use him to dismantle my house."

"He came to me!" Mikhail spat, a glob of bloody saliva hitting the floor. "The boy is a snake. He’ll bite you the moment you turn your back. He told me he hated you."

"He does hate me," I replied, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I knew Julian was watching from behind the glass. "But he hates you more. He hates that you thought he was weak. He hates that you thought he was a pawn."

I reached for a pair of heavy pliers on the tray. I didn't look at them; I kept my eyes on Mikhail’s. "The meeting at the cathedral. Saturday. Who else is coming?"

"Go to hell."

I leaned forward and gripped Mikhail’s pinky finger with the pliers. I didn't jerk. I didn't rush. I simply applied a slow, steady pressure. The sound of the bone snapping was like a dry twig breaking in the forest.

Mikhail screamed, his body lunging against the straps.

"The Irish?" I asked. "The O'Sullivans are too smart to side with a losing hand. Is it the Cartel? Did the Jimenez brothers fly in from Juarez?"

"I'll... I'll kill you," Mikhail gasped, his face slick with sweat.

"Unlikely," I said. I moved to the next finger.

POV: Julian Vane

I watched from the gallery, my fingers gripping the cold metal railing so hard my knuckles were white.

I had seen violence before. I had seen the aftermath of hits, the bodies pulled from the river, the blood on the floors of the Vane shipping offices. But this was different. This was clinical. This was Dante "The Butcher" Moretti living up to every terrifying syllable of his name.

He didn't look angry. He didn't look like a man enjoying himself. He looked like a surgeon performing a necessary operation. Every movement was precise. Every question was timed to the exact moment Mikhail’s pain peaked.

It was horrifying. It was barbaric.

And yet, I couldn't look away.

There was a dark, twisted part of me the part that had been sold like a slave, the part that had been beaten in a basement, that felt a sick sense of justice. Mikhail had looked at me as if I were nothing. He had touched me with hands that thought they owned the world.

Dante was breaking those hands.

He was doing it for the organization, yes. But he was also doing it for me.

After twenty minutes, Mikhail broke. The words poured out of him like a flood names, dates, locations. The Jimenez brothers were indeed coming. They were bringing a shipment of military-grade hardware to trade for the Vane docks. The Irish were staying neutral, waiting to see who survived the weekend.

Dante stood up, wiping a stray drop of blood from his cheek with a white handkerchief. He looked up at the one-way glass. He knew exactly where I was standing.

He didn't say a word. He just turned and walked out of the room.

A few minutes later, he was back in the gallery. He didn't look at me at first. He walked to the sink and began to wash his hands, the sound of the scrubbing water the only noise in the small space.

"Are you going to be sick?" he asked, his back to me.

"No," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He turned around, drying his hands. His eyes searched mine, looking for the cracks, looking for the moment the Prince would run back to his ivory tower.

"That is the reality of our life, Julian. When the lights go out and the silk comes off, that is how the power is kept. You wanted to be a Moretti. You wanted to be an auditor. That man down there? He’s a line item that didn't balance."

I walked toward him, stepping into the circle of his space. I reached out and took the towel from his hands, finishing the job for him. My fingers brushed his, and I felt that same electric spark, the one that defied logic and morality.

"I’m not leaving, Dante," I whispered. "I told you. I’m the one who’s going to make you immortal. And immortality requires a certain amount of... pruning."

Dante’s eyes darkened. He grabbed my waist, pulling me hard against him. The scent of antiseptic and blood hung around him, but I didn't pull away. I leaned into him, my forehead resting against his.

"You’re a monster, Julian Vane," he murmured, his breath hot against my lips.

"I’m your monster," I replied. "And Saturday? Saturday, we show them what happens when the Butcher and the Prince go to church."

Dante let out a low, dark laugh. He picked me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He didn't take me back to my room. He took me to his.

Tonight, the war could wait. Tonight, the only thing that mattered was the heat of the fire we had built between us a fire that was going to consume the entire city before the sun went down on Saturday.