It took seven minutes to get the boy from the chair to the wall, binding his wrists together, and then stretching them out above him. Valon didn’t bother removing the knives Jetmir had left in his chest, merely cut through the back of his shirt until the material split and he had unrestricted access to the length of his flesh.
While Valon headed for the tray of tools, Strom stood next to the girl, the smile he sent her way making renewed fear spark in her eyes. Fatos…he stood back, watching Valon’s every move. He would undoubtedly join in on the fun soon enough, but he seemed content to just observe for the time being.
Picking up a blade that was at least six inches long with a cold, steel handle, Valon turned it over in his hand, getting used to the feel of it. He’d never had much of a predilection for knives until one was used on him. But now? Now, he liked them more than his own hands.
These cold, inanimate things could do more harm than his fists could any day. This knife was an extension, something that was not quite a part of him but made up so much of who he was.
“What are you doing?” Fatos asked in Albanian so that the boy wouldn’t understand.
Valon picked up a bottle of vodka that had been left behind, dousing his hands and the knife in the liquor.
“Wouldn’t want it to get infected,” he muttered, too busy concentrating on his task to pay Fatos much attention.
Spinning the knife around in his hand, he went back over to the boy, leaning back against the wall so that he could see him. His eyes were on Fatos as he spoke, but his words were low enough for only the boy to here.
“Tell them what they want to know,” he ordered, for his sake as much as the boy.
Sometimes his self-control even surprised him, but Valon didn’t know what he was capable of when he used a knife, and after what he had suffered because of one of them…he wasn’t sure he could rein himself in before he did more damage than he meant. Maybe he could end this before it even began.
The boy’s eyes darted frantically, but when he couldn’t offer a response, Valon couldn’t wait any longer.
Pushing off the wall, Valon circled him until he was at his back again, staring at the wide expanse of his skin. Using the very tip of the blade, he ran it across the boy’s skin, following a pattern that was all too familiar to him.
He pictured what he was going to do first, each line he was going to carve…
Before he could check the impulse, he dug the blade in, watching as it sunk in easily, cutting through his skin with ridiculous ease. Pulling back after a second, he watched the blood drip down his skin, the red coloring stark.
A shudder rippled through him as he felt the ghost of a knife going through his own back.
“Do you have an answer?” Valon asked, ignoring the shaking of his own voice.
He desperately wanted the boy to answer now, just so he could avoid what he had to do next. With just one careful line, he felt that familiar draw, the need to hurt someone else the way he had been hurt, but he rationalized it in his own head by thinking he was giving them an out, something he hadn’t been given.
Valon liked to believe he gave him a chance to answer before he started back in, but he didn’t remember because once he made another cut, he was lost.
Chapter 16
In the last few years where he had learned how best to make a person hurt and the various ways he could achieve this, Valon didn’t think he had seen anything like this. Over the course of two days, Valon had done unmentionable things to the boy, had lost himself a time or two throughout the torture, but through it all, the boy held out.
That wasn’t even to mention what Strom had done to his lover.
Valon might not have shied away from what he and Fatos did to the boy, but he refused to take part in the gang rape. His morals might have been questionable at best…but he did have some.
After only a couple of hours of sleep on the first floor of the house they were in, Valon headed back upstairs, ready to begin it all again.
Ignoring the others, he looked at the boy as he always did; feeling that familiar stab of guilt at what he’d endured. He was sitting in a puddle of his own urine, his face a mass of bruises, and Valon didn’t have to see what his back looked like…he’d done that himself.
The girl was passed out, unlike the boy, and Valon was glad for this. It was enough that the boy was suffering. She didn’t have to, too.
He was nodding off, his dark, sweaty hair hanging around his face like a dark halo. Valon was not in any mood for carving his back up any further, so he kept to the back of the room, giving him a reprieve for as long as he could, but that idea was short-lived as Jetmir came charging up the stairs, a bucket of water in his hands.
His every step was clipped as he moved across the room, a desperate gleam now present in his eyes.
If Valon had to guess, then he was frustrated as to how long the boy was holding out. Not many people would have been able to keep quiet with the sheer level of pain Valon had put him through, not to mention what the girl had suffered. So, either the boy was a masochist…or there was something else, something that Valon was beginning to consider…
There was a timeline. Valon remembered that much from the day they’d visited the Besnik mansion to get the details of their assignment. Since he had held out for this long, they were running out of time.
Without a word to anyone, Jetmir tossed the water on the boy, stepping back when he lurched awake, his gaze shooting around the room. When he realized not much had changed, his entire body slumped with defeat.
“Your time is up,” Jetmir announced as he tossed the bucket to a corner.
Valon became all too aware that something big was about to happen as Fatos and Strom finally entered the room. Fatos was carrying a can of gasoline. The boy noticed this next as his eyes widened in fear.
Jetmir gripped the boy’s hair, forcing his head up so that he had a clear, unobstructed view of the girl, and then motioned for Fatos to come and take his place.
Valon knew what he saw once he had a good look at his lover, especially since during a good amount of what she had suffered, he’d been passed out. How, if he showed such weakness as he gazed at her, could he not tell them what they wanted to know, if only to spare her?
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’m so sorry.”
She sniffled, shaking her head as a tear fell down her swollen and bruised face.
“I have given you ample opportunity—more than, if we are being honest—but you have continued to defy me. To what end, only you know.” With Fatos now holding the boy secure, Jetmir crossed the room. “What more must be done before you break?”
Jetmir pulled a black lighter from his pocket, the pad of his thumb drifting over the onyx casing and the engraving that Valon was too far away to see what it actually was. Each time Jetmir flipped the top back, the flame igniting, flickering in the darkness of the room, a sliver of anxiety slid down Valon’s spine.
This…this was not going to end well.
“Tell me what I want to know,” Jetmir said, all traces of anger gone from his voice as he made the same request from the first day.
The boy, who seemed to detect the very thing that Valon did, sat up straighter, shaking his head once more. “I’m not who you’re looking for. I don’t even know what it is you even want!”
Sighing, as though the boy had once again disappointed him, Jetmir grabbed the red, plastic container from the floor, walking the short distance to her. Whistling as he unscrewed the cap, he dumped the contents onto her head, laughing as the liquid soaked her hair and washed away the traces of red on her thighs in seconds.
Whatever spell had kept her quiet up until this point wore off as she struggled, coughing behind the gag that was stuffed in her mouth.
When the acrid scent of gasoline hit him, the boy began begging in earnest. “Please…I’m not who you think I am. I live in Florida. I work construction! Whatever you want! Money? I can get it for you! Anything. Just please, let h
er go.”
Jetmir ripped the gag free from the girl’s mouth, her sobs now loud enough for them all to hear. Valon, not even realizing it, took several steps back, until his hands curled around the banister, the wood unrelenting under his grip.
Again, he held up that lighter, the flame dancing and sparking, as if it too was anticipating the moment of contact.
“One last chance.”
The couple met each other’s eyes, their helplessness clear. And for just a moment, Valon could see it in her eyes, the moment when she knew she was about to die, and instead of fear, there was acceptance. Valon flinched, feeling like he had intruded on a moment he was not meant to witness. He wanted to turn away, to not scar himself further by witnessing this, but it was as if he was glued to the present.
He had to know and accept what he had caused.
Her lips were moving like she was trying to say something, but she never got the opportunity.
“Please…”
The word had barely passed the boy’s lips when Jetmir stepped away and tossed the lighter. As it clattered to the floor, it was barely a second later before the gas ignited and the girl was consumed.
She screamed as the flames licked at her skin…
He screamed as he watched the girl he loved burn to death…
And Valon watched it all, dying a little inside.
He had to get out.
He had to get out.
He had to get out.
Before it consumed him, too.
Chapter 17
For the last six hours, Valon had sat alone in a dark corner of the building, listening to the one they had thought was the Volkov boy sob. While he usually took pleasure in the sounds of others’ suffering, especially if they were in the ring with him, this was…this felt wrong—not to mention the fact that a girl had been burned alive mere feet away from where he stood. Despite the amount of time that had passed, he could still smell her burning flesh, and even the charred scent of the rest of her, and could still hear the echoes of her screams.
Valon had a decision to make.
Something dark inside of him had festered, true, but even that had been hard for him to watch.
After lighting her up, Jetmir had placed the blindfold back on the boy, walking away from it all without a glimmer of regret.
The others still doubted the words this—what did he say his name was?—boy spouted, but there was no Vor that Valon knew who could withstand this amount of torture and not talk. For what? He was going to die anyway. He seemed to know this, so what more did he have to hide?
Carefully, Valon got to his feet, walking the short distance between them until he was at the boy’s side, staring down at him. The boy knew he was there, could see it in the way his shoulders went tight with fear, but he didn’t beg. He had stopped pleading with them ages ago. It had been Valon’s job to break him, to make him tell what he knew, but he had failed in that regard. Except, Jetmir had failed as well because, despite the gruesome act he had performed, the boy still hadn’t broke.
Which only made Valon believe that he wasn’t who they thought he was.
When they’d put the blades through his shirt, into his chest where his stars were meant to be, they had yet to be removed, and now that Valon was thinking about it, no one had bothered to check to make sure they were there.
Now was the time to change that.
With a jerk of his hand, he dislodged one of the knives, wiping the blade off on his jeans. The boy tried to stay silent, gritting his teeth against the pain, but that added pain made him cry out, lurching back, trying to escape, but there wasn’t anywhere for him to go. Deciding it was best to get the other out as quickly as possible, Valon fisted the other free and repeated the process.
Blood, both old and new, coated the front of the boy’s shirt—very much like Valon’s—but not fazed by it, he pulled the fabric from his body, revealing the man’s chest for the first time, and promptly cursed.
Nothing.
He even swiped his hands over the areas, smearing the blood further so he could see more clearly, but he wasn’t mistaken. There was nothing there but sliced skin and no hint of a tattoo.
What the fuck?
There had been no reason for them to verify that this person was actually Mishca Volkov. Mikhail nor Viktor had ever made any mention about a twin—unless that was his plan after all. Have them—or Valon in particular—do his dirty work and start a war that they weren’t prepared for.
And more importantly, there was no loyalty. They would more than happily hand Valon over as their pawn since he was the main one who had done most of the damage. From the very beginning, it seemed, this had been a setup, and he would be damned if he stayed here to bear the wrath of the entire fucking Vory v Zakone on his own.
It almost seemed curious that on this day, Fatos had gone with Jetmir for a conversation that Valon hadn’t been privy to…
Leaving him, Valon traveled down the stairs, carefully, not wanting to be heard. Strom was standing guard at the bottom of the staircase, his back to Valon. While he might have, technically, been one of them, Valon knew that he would never be able to leave, especially not with their prisoner still living, and the fact that he held knowledge about all of this.
Palming one of the knives he’d just pulled from the boy’s chest, he crept behind him, and as the man made to turn, Valon struck, using one hand to cover the man’s mouth as he brought the glinting blade around and slit his throat. As the blood sprayed along the walls and floor, Strom could only try to stop the flow to fight Valon off. Either way, he was a dead man.
There was only one other guard left, and with a knife through his throat, he died just as quickly. Valon patted the man down, relieving him of his gun and the set of keys in his pocket.
Outside, Valon checked his watch, knowing he only had a short time before Jetmir and the others would be back, but he needed to get the hell out of there before they did.
Climbing into one of the two cars still parked outside of the warehouse, Valon started it up, speeding out of the lot, heading back the way they had come to get there. In under thirty minutes, Valon was back in the city.
He thought of making a stop first, but with his limited time, he knew he needed to get Loki before anyone realized he was gone.
The safe house was not far from where he was currently, and when he got onto the street, he parked a few blocks down, abandoning the car where it was.
With the gun in hand, he headed into the brownstone, finding the door easy enough. Stepping out of view of the peephole, Valon banged his fist on the door, not stopping even as he heard a shout from the other side.
Marco had always been ill-tempered and prone to irrationality. Today, that was on Valon’s side as the door swung open. Marco, never the wiser, came out blindly, thinking to intimidate whatever unfortunate soul was on the other side.
Without even a single blink, Valon shot him in the face, his gun barely making a noise with the new silencer attached to the end of it.
Stepping over his body, he stuffed the gun in the waistband of his jeans, grabbing Marco by the arms and dragging him back into the apartment, then carefully the door shut. Drawn by the noise, two more appeared and Valon made quick work of them. Struck from behind—as he had left his back to another door as he made his way deeper into the apartment—Valon abandoned the gun and used brute strength, reminding those that had seemed to have forgotten how exactly he had made it here in the first place.
By the time there was no one left, Valon almost felt moved by the blood splattered on his chest.
He could hear whining over the loud television, and for the first time in at least three days, Valon felt a shred of calmness worm its way through him. But before he could let Loki out, he needed to get a few things first. Hunting through the apartment, he emptied the safe of its contents, not a lot by their standards, but enough to give him a head start.
Finished with his task, he went room by room, taking anything—what litt
le there was—that he’d brought with him from Albania before opening the rather small cage they’d stuffed Loki in once Valon was gone.
Loki didn’t jump all over him as he was prone to do if Valon were gone for long periods of time, as if he could sense something was wrong. He just sat alert, waiting for a command.
Valon took one last look at the space, no flicker of emotion hitting him as he eyed the dead bodies that covered the floor.
Leaving them, he headed back to the truck, Loki trailing behind him, hopping into the cab when he got the door open. Starting it up, he pulled out onto the street, not looking back at the old brownstone even when he turned the corner and it finally disappeared out of view.
He drove for a while, formulating a plan as best he could, knowing that he needed to get out of the city before nightfall. While he couldn’t be sure how long it would take for Jetmir or one of his other men to catch up with him, he knew eventually they would, especially since he knew the truth about what happened to the boy.
Before he left, however, he needed to make a phone call. Until he could do that, he needed a change of clothes. Pulling up to the curb, he undressed, tossing his clothes in the back seat, and then looked at Loki.
“Stay.”
He wasn’t the least bit concerned as he walked into the store wearing only a pair of boxer-briefs. At this hour, it was relatively empty. The few associates behind the registers and stocking the shelves gawked as he came in but couldn’t seem to form words as he went hunting through the store, grabbing a pair of jeans and the first shirt he saw that didn’t have a logo on it.
Valon went to the register, slapping enough cash down onto the counter to cover the costs of the clothes as he met the eyes of a young woman, no older than he was, who couldn’t tear her eyes away from his chest. Any other time, he might have been amused, but now, he was annoyed.
“Restroom.” She didn’t seem to hear him, so he repeated, a bit more forcefully, “Restroom.”
The City Page 18
