64. Mikhail

The entire time I'm flying across town, I'm sure I'll find Anatoly's abandoned car idling along some curb, the driver's door thrown open, with Pyotr nowhere in sight.

He has to know I'm coming for him. He has to know that, by crossing me, he's signed his death warrant.

He killed Stella, tried to kill Anatoly, and kidnapped my wife and child. Even if he has already fled, he could never get far enough away. When he dies—which he will—it will be by my hand.

And my God, it will fucking hurt.

When I reach the beacon location, I do find a neon green Jeep that can only have belonged to my brother idling along the curb—but it isn't empty. As I edge down the sidewalk, I hear Pyotr's voice coming from the rolled-down window.

Idiot. His death is going to come even sooner than I hoped.

"It's me. Again," Pyotr growls, a phone against his ear. "I held up my end of the bargain and I'm waiting for word from you. You have what you want. Now, I need what you promised. I know you're good for it, Iakov. But you need to call me back."

I knew I'd come to regret not killing my father the same night I exiled Trofim. I should have suspected he was involved from the very beginning. But even as the rage deep in my gut burns and grows, I want to laugh.

Pyotr betrayed me, thinking my father was going to keep whatever bullshit promises he made?

I almost feel bad killing the fool.

Actually, I don't. He deserves whatever is coming to him.

"I'll wait here another ten minutes, but any longer than that isn't safe," Pyotr continues. "Please call me before?—"

The words die in his throat when I press the muzzle of my gun to his temple.

"Hang up the phone," I growl.

Pyotr clings to the phone for another second. It's like he's waiting for my father to pick up. Like maybe some lifeline will appear on the other end of the phone and save him.

But there's no salvation coming for him.

"Now."

Finally, he hangs up and drops the phone in his lap. He raises his hands into the air. They tremble in front of him.

"Mikhail, I—" He swallows nervously.

"Get out of the car."

"Let's just talk about this," he pleads. "I want to explain myself to?—"

I cock the gun so he can hear it. "How about that for an explanation? Do you understand my side of things now, Pyotr?"

He nods and reaches slowly for the door handle. He slides out of the car reluctantly, his eyes locked on mine.

The street is dark and deserted. The only streetlight working is at the far end of the block. We're shrouded in shadow, but I'd like to be somewhere a little more private for what I have planned.

I tip my head towards the alley behind us. "Start walking."

A cross between a growl and a whimper works out of his throat. "Mikhail, you have to understand?—"

"The only thing I need to understand is that Anatoly will be pissed if I get your brains on his upholstery," I interrupt. "But I'm sure he'll understand I didn't have a choice if you don't start walking."

Pyotr marches slowly to the alley. He looks up and down the road, but there's no one in sight. Just the two of us.

The stupid suit jacket Pyotr insists on wearing blends into the darkness of the alley. All I can see is the white of his neck peeking over the collar. So that is where I aim.

I snatch Pyotr up by the back of his scrawny neck and slam him against the brick wall. The air in his lungs gushes out in a single huff.

"Where did you take Viviana and Pyotr?"

"It was your father!" he rasps. "Your father organized everything. I was only the transportation. It's my job to?—"

"It's your job to do as I tell you. You stopped working for my father six years ago and you fucking know it." I spin him around and crack the gun across his face. A gash opens across his cheekbone, spewing blood. He scrambles to shield himself from another blow. "Tonight didn't happen because you were confused about your duties. Tonight was you starting a war with me. Now, I want to know why."

"You're going to kill me either way," he says, spitting blood onto the pavement. "Might as well get it over with."

I wedge the gun under his chin, leaning in close. "I'll kill you if I'm feeling merciful—if you earn it. Keeping you chained in the basement until Anatoly is well enough to get his own revenge is another option I'm toying with."

His eyes flare with panic. He's seen firsthand what Anatoly is capable of.

"Do I need to remind you that you killed his girlfriend?"

Something like regret flashes in Pyotr's eyes. "I didn't know they were—Anatoly must have told Stella his plan. She saw me messing with the car you'd loaded with supplies and tried to stop me. It was his fault that she was in my way."

"Go ahead and tell him that when he comes to find you in the dungeon. He'll love hearing how it was his fault that you murdered his woman and shot him in the chest."

"I don't know why I'm surprised," he mutters. "Anatoly fucks up and you still can't find fault with him."

I choke him with the barrel, crushing his windpipe against the wall. "He didn't ‘fuck up.' He got shot by someone he trusted. Our only mistake was calling you a friend."

And letting myself get distracted. Maybe if I hadn't been so preoccupied with Viviana, I would have noticed that Pyotr was a spy.

Pyotr chokes out a laugh. "A friend? Do you treat all your friends like servants? I've worked for you for six years and I've never been invited to a family dinner. You were happy keeping me under your foot. I was never going to move up the ranks."

I blink at him. "This is about jealousy? You're mad that you and I aren't best fucking pals?"

He juts his chin out, looking every bit like an oversized child. "Considering you are the spare son who claimed the title you wanted, I'd expect you to resonate with my circumstances. I didn't plan to be a driver forever."

"So you ask for a fucking promotion!" I snap. "You don't kidnap my wife and child!"

"Iakov promised that he and I would reclaim the title. I was going to rule in Dante's stead until he was old enough, and then?—"

I laugh in his face. "You thought my father was going to let you lead? God, it's even more pathetic than I thought. You're a fucking idiot."

"He was lonely," Pyotr spits. "He lost all of his sons for one reason or another. I became a substitute of sorts. On long drives, he confided in me. We became close. He and I both agreed that Trofim was the right choice and that Iakov should reclaim his position to save the Bratva; we just didn't see a way to unite the men behind an aging figurehead when you had already fucked everything up so much. Then Dante came along. I was actually the one to suggest the idea, and Iakov?—"

"My father made you feel like a special little boy," I sneer. "He played you for the fool you are and made you believe that he would reward you for betraying me. You did his dirty work. Now, he has my wife and son and you are being hung out to dry. There's no world in which you were ever going to be even a temporary pakhan."

Pyotr sags against the wall as realization dawns.

"You might as well play him back and tell me where he took Viviana and Dante."

"He tricked me," Pyotr whispers to himself.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I wouldn't usually check messages in the middle of an interrogation, but Pyotr looks like he's going to be sick. I'm not worried about him running away.

I found them. He's holding them at your old house. Finish up and meet me there.

I force down the rage, stowing it away for later, and lower my gun to Pyotr's stomach.

"Wait!" he gasps. "I'll tell you?—"

"I don't need anything from you anymore." I pull the trigger and he hunches over, screaming as hot blood coats my hand. "That's for Anatoly."

I step back and shoot one kneecap, my ears still ringing from the first shot. "That's for Stella."

As he clutches one leg, I take aim at the other. "That's for Dante."

He sinks to the ground, weeping as his ruined legs splay wide. I aim directly between them and fire.

Once the screaming dies down, I say, "And that is for touching my wife."

Pyotr falls sideways onto the damp pavement, blood pooling around him. Usually, I'd stand here and enjoy the sight of him bleeding out in abject agony. But he's screaming so much that I'm worried about drawing too much attention.

"Ultimately, I don't care why you betrayed me," I tell him, even though I'm not sure he's in much of a listening mood. "The only thing that matters is that it's the last thing you'll ever do."

He lifts his bloody face just as I pull the trigger.

The light in his dark eyes fades and he crumples into the alley like the pile of wasted potential he is.

In a lot of ways, I'd count this as a mercy. Pyotr's pain lasted five minutes when it should have lasted years.

Lucky for him, I have somewhere to be.