The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Lorcan

We call it the Observatory. A grand name for nothing but a small room separated from one of our largest torture chambers by a plywood wall. Running through the middle of it is one-way glass. From the Observatory, I have a front-row seat to whoever we’re interrogating. I can look at them, but when they look at me, all they see is their own defeat in their bloodied faces.

I’m on edge, pacing the length of the one-way mirror, like I’ve seen Antoin do a million times. To pass the time, I massage my swollen knuckles. Today, the swelling isn’t from any one-on-one interrogation with a Bratnov ally. But rather a visit to the Boston Four Seasons hotel in the early hours, where I landed my fist on Poppy’s ex-boyfriend’s face, one hit for every time he called her a slut, bitch, or whore. Then another round for good measure.

Getting your hands on any hotel key card in the city is pretty easy when they all pay you for protection.

God, fucking Poppy. Every time I blink I see her crying face behind my eyelids. I hate that she hates me. It’s seeping into my consciousness and makes me feel sick in a way I can’t articulate. Even if I was one of those pussies that spoke about his feelings. I’m hoping the feeling will go away if I knock Maxim around enough.

Yes, I finally have my hands on Igor’s eldest son. His second-in-command, the closest person to Igor himself.

I can hear a noise. Boots. Heavy ones, scraping against the concrete floor. It sends a ripple of excitement down my spine because it’s a noise that I know all too well. When the door to the main chamber flies open, I’m instantly satisfied.

Maxim Bratnov’s body is limp, which is why his heels are dragging along the floor. He’s held up by Donnacha and Pat. When they throw him into the chair in the middle of the room, Donnacha looks towards the window and throws me a wink.

I press the intercom. “How long?”

Pat leans over and presses two fingers against Bratnov’s neck. After a few beats, he says, “Two minutes.”

Donnacha rolls up his sleeves and growls, “Need more time? ‘Cause I can make that happen?”

“Nah. Cool it.”

I rub my hands together like a greedy king waiting on the jewels. I’ve been waiting a long fucking time to put a fist through Maxim’s face. I can do twenty more minutes, I’m sure. Leaning my palms against the glass, I study him. What an ugly fucker.

His face is scarred from a lifetime of conflict, and his long, greasy ponytail hangs low at the base of his neck. All the Bratnov’s I’ve ever met have this hairstyle. And one of the first things I’m going to do when he wakes up is chop it off and make him eat it.

“What are you grinning at?”

Antoin’s voice comes from the doorway.

“The thought of all the sweet, sweet things I’m going to do to this prick.”

“Yeah, about that.”

I turn to face my second-in-command. Sharp suit, shiny shoes too much fucking aftershave. He’s looking real out of place among the flaking walls and stench of old blood. Me, on the other hand, I’m dressed to get down and dirty in old Levi’s and a sweater.

“Don’t bother, Antoin,” I growl, heading to the prep bar. It’s what I like to call the small table against the wall in the Observatory. It has a lockbox for my watch, keys, and wallet. My toolbox sits next to it with a box of rubber gloves. “I’m going in.”

His voice is strained. “At least hear me out.”

My silence permits him to keep talking. “I know you want to bash the fucker’s head in. Trust me, I do too. But we really need Maxim alive. He’s the only person that will one-hundred-percent know where his father is.”

“Give me a pair of tweezers and fifteen seconds. I’ll get it out of him.”

“You know Viktor Bratnov didn’t wake up.”

“Who?”

Antoin’s sharp intake of breath irritates me. But I’m saving my energy for Maxim.

“Bratnov’s youngest son. You bashed his head against the pillar you’d tied him to and he never woke up. We can’t risk you doing that to Maxim. He’s too valuable.”

“Are you saying I have no self-control?” I retort icily, snapping on a pair of gloves.

“I’m saying your temper is too short and your trigger finger is too fast.”

My eyes travel back through the glass and I let out a loud sigh. I hate that Antoin has a good point. I know I’ll go in there and the second he spits at me I’ll put a bullet through his head. And besides, my head is only half in the game.

Damn it, China Doll.

“Go home. I got this, I promise.”

“Fine,” I grumble, snapping off my gloves as fast as I put them on and slip my Audemars back on my wrist. “Keep me updated.”

Without waiting for confirmation, I push past him and stalk down the dimly lit corridors in the direction of daylight.

I know exactly where I’m headed. ‘Cause Poppy is a bright fucking flame, and I’m nothing but a pathetic moth that can’t stay away.