Fractured Souls - Page 47

As we walk toward the entrance of the club, I look up at the dark sky, searching for the small white flakes. The temperature has dropped significantly, and there is a crisp feel to the air. It’s been clinging to my senses since the moment we left Pasha’s building, along with the panic that’s been rising in my chest. I almost asked Pasha if I could return to his place, fearing that it would start snowing. I thought I was getting better. In some ways, I was. But the idea of seeing the frost-covered ground makes my heart pound at double its normal rhythm.

A man standing at the entrance opens the door for us when we approach. He’s wearing an unbuttoned black coat, revealing a black suit underneath. I tighten my hold on Pasha’s hand and will myself to offer the bouncer a small smile as we pass.

Pasha leads me across the spacious area decorated in shades of black and gray. Tall tables surround the edges of a currently empty dance floor. Along the wall, a raised platform holds several large booths containing luxury leather seating. The space is completely empty, save for a girl who is cleaning at one of the booths, making the sound of our footsteps echo off the walls.

Finally reaching the opposite side of the floor, we climb the stairwell to the upper level. This space has been made to look like a gallery of sorts. The floor-to-ceiling glass wall leans out over the dance floor, exposing the entirety of the club’s interior to anyone standing up here. We enter a room where a man in his early forties sits in front of a block of monitors showing various camera angles of different areas in the club. Pasha nods at the man and heads toward another door on the right.

As we enter, I spot a blond man in his twenties sitting behind a desk covered with papers. He’s mumbling something to himself while glaring at the computer screen in front of him. His longer-cut hair is tousled but it doesn’t hide the fact he’s very handsome. A few months ago, my face would have flushed red if I saw him. But that was before I met Pasha. This guy may be attractive, but his looks have no impact on me.

“I see you finally decided to drag your ass here,” the man grumbles then looks up from the screen, his eyes zeroing in on me and going impossibly wide.

“Kostya, this is Asya,” Pasha says and leads me around the desk until we’re standing in front of his friend. “Where are the contracts that need my signature?”

Kostya’s gaze drops to my hand clasped in Pasha’s before it flips back up to my face. His eyebrows shoot all the way up to his hairline.

“Eyes on me, Konstantin!” Pasha barks.

“Jesus fuck, man!” Kostya cringes. “Don’t do that. Only mybabushkacalls me by my full name, usually when I’ve fucked something up.”

“Contracts. Now.”

“What the fuck has gotten into you? Did you change your fucking personality along with your wardrobe? Christ.” He grabs a stack of papers out of the drawer and tosses them on the desk in front of Pasha. “Here.”

Pasha starts signing the contracts, but his left hand retains its hold on mine the entire time. He’s wearing jeans and a black sweater today. I tried to convince him to put on a suit, but he said no.

Kostya pretends to be busy with something on the computer screen, but I notice him throwing a quick look at me every few seconds.

Once Pasha is done signing, he pushes the papers to the center of the desk and straightens. “Is that all?”

“Yup.”

Pasha nods and heads toward the exit. I wave at his friend and follow. We’re at the threshold when Kostya calls out, “Oh, Pasha! You may want to drop by the old warehouse later.”

“What for?”

“We’ve caught one of Julian’s men. Bekim. Mikhail will be questioning him.”

Pasha’s body stiffens. He turns slowly and looks at his friend. “Call Mikhail. Tell him he can stay home with his family tonight.”

“What? So, who’s going to have that chat with the guy?”

Pasha looks down at me. “I will.”

When I enter the warehouse, Kostya is already there, leaning against the wall and fumbling with his phone. In the opposite corner, with his face to the floor, lies a man in his early thirties. His legs are bound with silver duct tape around his ankles and knees. His hands are tied behind his back. A dirty rag protrudes from his mouth.

Even after all these years, a faint scent of burned wood still lingers in the air. This is one of the warehouses that the Italians tried to burn down before we signed the truce. The basement in the pakhan’s mansion has been out of commission since then—his wife doesn’t appreciate the smell of blood in her house—so we decided to leave this warehouse as is and conduct our interrogations here.

I glance at the soldier standing a few paces from “our guest” and tip my head toward the exit. “Leave. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

The man nods and heads outside.

I don’t waste any time and grab Julian’s man by the back of his jacket, dragging him away from the wall to give me more room. He whines and starts thrashing, then moans when I let his body fall back to the floor. I place my foot on his back and wrap my hand around his thumb. The sound of bones breaking is followed by a muffled, pained whimper. I press my foot harder and take the next finger.

“You need to ask Mikhail to give you a quick course in torture,” Kostya says from his spot by the wall. “The rule is: ask questions first. Then start breaking shit.”

Another snap.

“Our methods differ,” I say as I continue.