39. Chapter 39

"Well, well, well.

Isn't this an interesting situation?"

Understatement of the century, old man.

From all my research into Alexi, I know that Ilya Kapranov is only pushing 65, but the years of terrorizing a good chunk of the Russian population have clearly taken their toll.

His once-black hair is now fully gray.

His face sports more wrinkles than a gator skin handbag, and his dark eyes are sunken into sockets that are rimmed with dark circles.

He looks like the fucking Crypt Keeper.

I pity the tailor that had to fit this walking corpse with the very expensive three-piece suit he's currently wearing.

The clicking sound from only seconds earlier came from a long black cane topped with the silver head of a wolf.

As the man's hand shifts on the cane, I see that the wolf's eyes are actually made of large red rubies.

It probably cost a pretty penny, and even though my brain would usually switch to autopilot and start calculating the resale value of such an item, I'm having a hard time focusing because of, you know, my impending death .

At Ilya's words, I both hear and see Gaspari's feet shuffle further away from the man.

He's afraid, too.

Good.

It doesn't take a rocket-scientist to figure out why the old bastard is here.

He wants the diamond, though I have no idea if he's aware that Gaspari sold it to me or I just happened to get zip-tied in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It seems like a bit of a clusterfuck if he hired Gaspari, who then hired my father, to kidnap me in the hopes of getting it back.

As Ilya takes stock of the scene, I stay silent, watching him.

With the exception of my hands, which are now furiously trying to extricate themselves from the plastic cuffs, I don't move a muscle.

Maybe if I don't breathe, he'll forget I'm here—fat chance.

His gaze moves from my father's rapidly cooling body to Gaspari, who continues to shift on his feet and watch the other man warily, the proverbial smoking gun still clutched in one of the hands hanging limply at his sides.

When the old man's gaze finally turns to where I'm still sitting, bound and helpless, we lock eyes, and the sudden urge to vomit hits me like a ton of bricks.

There's less than nothing behind those eyes.

It's like staring into a well, the bottom so dark that you have to wonder if there even is a bottom.

A lot of puzzle pieces begin clicking into place regarding Alexi's personality.

I don't think I'd have made it out alive if I'd grown up in the same house as this man.

It's no wonder Alexi came to the US and entered into law enforcement.

If even half the rumors about Ilya Kapranov are true, he's the definition of a nightmare, and I'll bet Alexi wanted to be the polar opposite of the monster that raised him.

Trapped under that dead stare, if I were a lesser man, I'd probably shit myself right now.

Ilya takes that moment to part his lips and smile at me and I can practically feel my asshole tighten.

His teeth are black, but not because they've gone rotten, as you might first assume.

He's had them capped that way.

I didn't even know you could do that, but it's fucking terrifying, which I guess was the goal.

Beads of sweat dot my upper lip and I try my best not to let him see that my guts are threatening to come up my throat.

I can tell by the way his smile widens that he knows exactly the effect he has and that even my iron will is no exception.

Gaspari takes another small step away from us, and the lethal-looking men surrounding us take a step forward in unison, guns at the ready.

Without taking his eyes off me, Ilya speaks to him.

"Where is it, Dante?"

he asks.

They're only four short words, and yet each one feels like what I would imagine having bamboo shoots shoved underneath your fingernails feels like.

My hands involuntarily clench into fists on the armrests of the chair.

"Wh … where's what? I don't know what you're talking about, Ilya."

Gaspari says, and the lie can be heard screaming from beneath the many layers of fear, even to my own ears.

The old man finally looks away from me to face the Italian, who looks to be about two seconds away from pissing himself.

If I weren't in the same boat, I'd laugh at how quickly he went from a supervillain to the unnamed extra that dies within the first five minutes of a horror movie.

Any intimidation factor he previously possessed has been overshadowed by the radiating evil coming off this small, decrepit old man.

Ilya makes a tsking sound and shakes his head, not unlike that of a disappointed father.

Except, I highly doubt Gaspari's in for a grounding unless it's the kind that comes with a satin-lined casket.

Or, in this case, a black garbage bag.

Ilya sighs heavily, as if he's already weary of this conversation. "Kneel,"

he commands, but instead of waiting for Gaspari to get on his knees, it becomes very clear very quickly that the single-worded command has a dual purpose.

As if they share one mind, the guard closest to Gaspari steps forward, raises his gun, and fires a single shot, taking out his right kneecap.

The Italian buckles to the floor with a loud thump, screaming in pain.

Despite the fear for my own life, I can't prevent the smile from curling up the corners of my mouth.

Maybe if I'm lucky, Kapranov will torture and kill Gaspari before me, at least allowing me to witness his death if I'm not going to have the pleasure of being the one to dole it out.

A long string of Italian expletives is interspersed with whimpers and sniffling.

When the man now resting on his only remaining good knee, finally lifts his head back up, I get a sick kind of thrill to see tears mingling with drips of snot running down his face.

His eyes meet mine, and the hatred I see in them is a direct reflection of mine, only mine are also alight with humor whereas his are alight with humiliation.

Ilya Kapraov takes that moment to follow Gaspari's gaze, his eyes returning to focus on me. Fuck.

"Who are you, boy? And why are you shackled to that chair?"

His voice is curious, but I don't have any delusions that it's because he plans to set me free, even if just to piss Gaspari off.

His tone would indicate that his curiosity is more geared toward the possibility of using me for something.

Leverage maybe? I watch the old man, weighing my options carefully.

I could lie, but I'd certainly end up with fewer knee caps than Gaspari.

Or I could tell the truth and pray that, by some miracle of God, there's some favor I can do for him in exchange for my life.

All things considered, it would seem there's really only one option.

Even though talking to the man makes my insides squirm, I opt for the truth—or at least part of it .

"My name is Deacon Taylor, and I'm tied to this chair because Gaspari is a pussy and can't handle me in a one-on-one fight.

I would ask you to untie me, but at this point, I'd basically be doing the equivalent of kicking a puppy."

The old man lets out a low chuckle, but there's no humor in it.

In fact, the laugh sounds very much like what I'd imagine a robot attempting to mimic human emotions would sound like.

Turning to Gaspari, who still kneels on the hard floor, blood dripping from the mangled remnants of his right knee, Kapranov asks, "Is that true, Dante? Who is this man to you?"

Practically spitting venom, he says, "He stole something from me.

Something worth a hell of a lot more than your precious diamond."

His eyes bore holes into mine, and even past the ringing in my ears set off by the blow of the lead pipe against my face and the two subsequent gunshots, I still muster the gall to blow him a kiss.

He attempts to lunge for me, buckling in agony when the realization of his current circumstances catches up with him.

During this exchange, Ilya watches us both carefully, those cold, dead eyes giving nothing away.

As Gaspari collapses to the ground once more, his brain must finally register the words he just spoke and the fact that he's given himself away.

He just practically admitted that he stole the diamond.

Or that, at the very least, he knows why Kapranov is here.

The old man taps the end of his cane on the floor slowly several times before saying, "We'll come back to the matter of my diamond.

I must admit, my curiosity is piqued.

What could possibly be worth more than the largest blue diamond in the world?"

Gaze swinging from Gaspari to me, he asks, "Are you a thief, Mr. Taylor? "

Nodding my head slowly, I recall what Alexi said to Siren at the masquerade.

"Yes, though you can't steal something that refuses to be held."

Ilya lifts an eyebrow.

For the first time since entering this room, Hell, maybe for the first time ever, genuine interest crosses his expression.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he lets out another low laugh, this one holding no more emotion than the first, however.

"Ah, a woman, then?"

he asks, though it sounds like more of a forgone conclusion than a question posed to either of us.

"I would be very interested to meet the woman that two such formidable men deem more valuable than the Oppenheimer Blue."

Fat chance, old man.

If I'm lucky, said woman will be hidden away in a safe house under FBI protection by now.

It's literally the only thought keeping me from jumping off the deep end.

Suddenly, there's a commotion in the doorway behind me, and a man's voice says, " Izvini , boss.

I'd bet good money that this is the woman in question.

She's obnoxious, but …"

The man pauses before continuing, "...

she did come with a gift."

Slowly closing my eyes, I pray that it's not who I think it is.

But, to coin a phrase often used by my mama, if I didn't have bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

I can't see the door behind me, but I don't need to when a voice that's been both a thorn in my side and the rose attached to it says in a loud voice, "What's more obnoxious was your Dad having the audacity not to skeet you into the toilet.

You smell like fish tank water, and if you could keep your sweaty ass palms off me, that'd be great.

I do know how to walk, you know."

Goddammit, woman.

If there were ever a time to keep your mouth shut, it would be now.

Chair legs screeching in protest against the hardwood floors, I shift around until I can see what's going on behind me.

The foul-smelling man in question pushes a spitting-mad Siren into the room before stepping back into the hallway.

The gun he's currently holding points at someone outside of the room, but I don't have to be psychic to guess who it is, and I'll bet he wants to be here even less than I do.

The guard gestures with the gun, and sure enough, the broad frame of Alexi Kapranov steps slowly into the room.

Those mismatched eyes meet mine, then move to Gaspari, who's still lying in a heap on the floor next to my father's lifeless body, before finally landing on his own father.

Well, shit.

This situation is getting increasingly out of hand by the second.

The way we're going, I wouldn't be surprised to see a full three-ring circus in here next.

If the look passing between father and son is any indication, I need to figure out how to get us out of this and fast … before the elephant in the room stomps on all of us.