Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Dante
Iswear I can still smell her scent if I concentrate. My aftershave on the throbbing pulse at her neck. And I know I need to stop this. Because this isn’t how this is supposed to go. But somewhere in the years as I planned to rescue Mara, the girl, she has become Mara, the woman. And it’s the woman I can’t get out of my head.
I’m three blocks from Red’s. My head not quite in the game because it takes me a minute to register the two men approaching me as Petrov’s soldiers.
“Gentlemen.” I look them over. “I use that term loosely.”
Neither of them even meets my gaze. An SUV screeches to a halt near us. The front tires bump up onto the sidewalk. I’m thrown against it. After searching me and relieving me of my pistol—I didn’t bother bringing anything else—they shove me into the backseat, and one climbs in beside me. There’s another one already in the vehicle so I’m sandwiched between them.
“This is cozy,” I say as we head toward Red’s. At least I hope that’s where we’re headed because I don’t have a backup plan. Matthaeus will be tracking me though. The benefit of having this patch. A phone they’ll take from you. But the tracker is embedded into the patch itself.
Cristiano doesn’t know I’m doing this. Charlie is buying me time but taking a chance. If things go wrong, he’ll be the one answering to my brother.
A few minutes later, we drive past the entrance of the high-end private club. The vehicle comes to a stop at the mouth of an alley. I’m ushered out, met by two new men, one of whom zip-ties my hands. I’m grateful the idiot does it in front of me and not at my back. They each take an arm and walk me toward the alley entrance. From here I can see the sealed exit of the cellar at the far end.
The steel door is held open by a soldier who tosses the butt of his cigarette onto the ground. I walk in through this dingy back entrance. No one’s here and I guess this isn’t even the staff entrance.
I pick up the smells of food and hear the bustle of a busy kitchen. At the far end of the room, I see the small, round window in a door that leads to where those smells are coming from. I wonder if any kitchen staff know what happens just below their feet.
Another man stands at a second door. He opens it and I’m hustled inside. This doorway leads to a staircase too narrow for both my guards, so one goes ahead and the other behind me. I’m tempted to kick the legs out from the one in front of me but hold back.
I look around the large but dingy space, recognize it from the pictures. They didn’t do it justice. Or maybe it’s been used since those photos were taken. And photos can’t capture the smells of a place. Bleach and basement with an undercurrent of blood and fear.
I think about Mara being brought here. Mara made to witness what they did. That’s good. That makes my blood boil.
Two men lean against the counter talking. Along that counter I see several butcher knives and various other tools they’ll use to torture me. Or so they think. They straighten when we enter, and I note the hazmat like suits they’re wearing. I’m going to guess that’s to intimidate. It’s overkill if you ask me.
I’m planted unceremoniously into one of the two chairs at the table my back to the staircase. I would have preferred the other seat.
The soldiers who accompanied me down walk back up the stairs. The door slams shut loudly behind them.
“You know it’s polite to offer your guest a drink,” I say to the two idiots tasked with keeping me company. They’re to my left for which I’m grateful. My peripheral vision to the right is nonexistent.
They don’t reply. But I don’t have to wait long before I hear the door open, hear the low grumble of voices speaking Russian.
I think of Mara then. Of how she must have felt every time the door to her room opened and he entered. And I think about how she is. Quiet. Intense. Dark. What would she have been like if they hadn’t taken her? If she hadn’t been on the island the day of the massacre? If she’d had a chance to lead a normal life.
“You’re not very intelligent, are you Mr. Grigori?” Petrov says from behind me.
I crane my neck to watch the hulking man remove his coat and hand it to another, shorter man in a suit and hat. No hazmat on this guy. I guess he thinks he’s leaving before things get messy.
I move to rise to my feet but a hand clamps down over my shoulder and shoves me back down. “And you’re even fatter than your pictures show.” I smile wide as I take in one of the men who turned Mara into the lost girl she’s become. “I thought they said it was the camera that added ten pounds.”
His smile disappears and his lips settle into what I guess is his usual scowl. He unbuttons his jacket and pushes it back to show me the shoulder holster containing his pistol. He lowers himself into the seat across from mine.
“Where is she?”
“Not here.”
“You think I’m playing a game?”
“Why would I think that?”
“My men are destroying the second penthouse as we speak.”
“I thank you for that. It saves me the trouble.”
He sits back, beady eyes narrowed, assessing me coldly. “You’ve destroyed each property your father left you.”
My jaw ticks. He knows David is my father. How the fuck does he know?
He grins. He must see my reaction. Well, good for him. I’ll give him a fucking sticker.
“What’s the matter, didn’t like daddy’s gifts?”
“Fuck you, Petrov.”
“No, I believe you are the one who’s fucked at the moment. Where is my property?”
“She’s a human being.”
He cocks his head. “No. Property,” he says, studying me. I school my features. “Something pretty to own and discard when it’s used up.”
I want to kill him. “Why do you want her back? She’s not who you thought. In fact, didn’t she make a fool of you?”
It’s him with the tick in his jaw this time. At least I think that’s a tick. I can’t quite make out muscle movement beneath the layers of fat.
“She and Felix, that is. That tiny little nobody Felix Pérez, along with a fifteen-year-old-girl, made a fool of the great Ivan Petrov. Tell me, are your friends still having a good laugh at your expense? Oh wait, you don’t have any friends.”
He’s quiet, still assessing. He’s not a stupid man. I know that. And I need to be careful. Push him just enough. But not too far. Not yet. It would have been better if he’d put his pistol on the table between us. Given me a second option. But as it stands, I only have one.
“How did it feel walking into your home only to find the blood of your family staining the floors? Is it strange to live there now?”
Fuck.
“But you don’t live there,” he continues when I don’t react. “I’m sure your brother and his family are relieved at that. The son of their family’s killer sharing their roof, their table, it would be too much for anyone to bear.”
“Tell me something, does your wife know you like to fuck fifteen-year-old girls? I hear your boy doesn’t seem to mind. Like father like son?”
He’s not upset by this. I didn’t expect him to be. “You know you really should be thanking me.”
“And why is that?”
“If it weren’t for me just think of all the men who would have used her all those years.”
I force myself to breathe. To not react.
“I paid for her virginity. And oh my, was it worth it.” He grins. Self-satisfied prick.
“Fuck you. How’s that for a thanks?”
His grin vanishes. “You’re wasting my time. Where is she?” His tone is sharp, eyes dead.
“Somewhere you won’t find her.”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere.”
“You’re not getting her back, Petrov. Ever.”
“I’m sure she misses me. Misses my hands on her. And I miss her, too. Miss the way she called my name when she came.”
My hands fist in my lap.
He grins, leans toward me. “She tastes wonderful. Have you had a taste yet? Something about eating a young, virgin pussy.”
I grit my teeth, force myself to regulate my breath.
“Tell me have you felt her tight cunt squeeze your dick yet? Or hear her screams when you take her ass?”
I lean toward him too because this is what I want. What I need for this to work. I slide my bound hands along the underside of the table. Feel the edge of the tape. The tip of the blade pointing toward Petrov’s gut. Charlie’s contact knew which seat he’d be in.
“She has a set of lungs on her, that girl,” he continues, smiling now, showing teeth that are too small for his fat head spaced too far apart from each other. “I wonder if you’ll scream as loud when we cut you into a hundred little pieces before I put you out of your misery.”
I close my hand around the hilt, peel it from the table slowly so the duct tape doesn’t make a sound. I’ll have one shot at this. And I may still die. It depends on how fast he dies. How quick his soldiers are. One of them has his back turned. He’s rearranging the tools of my eventual torture.
“Now my son, he had a special preference for her mouth. I told him it was risky. I never did manage to break her spirit completely.”
“Tell me, do you think she even felt your dick? Rumor has it it’s, well, smaller than expected for a man your size,” I say, not that I have a clue. I lean forward some more, gripping the knife hard. It’s shorter than I’d like but it’ll have to do.
He puts his hands on the table, neck and face growing red with anger.
Hell. I’ve hit a nerve. Maybe it’s the truth after all.
“That’s about the size,” I gesture to his hands. He looks down at them. “The pinkie.” I grin, extending my arms as far as they’ll go beneath the table, grateful for his gut being the size it is. “Length and width I hear.” This last part I say in a lowered voice, so he leans toward me to hear. It’s just enough.
He doesn’t even have a chance to answer as the knife slides into his gut like it’s cutting through butter. The blade is short, but very sharp.
There’s a momentary pause, a grunt that only I hear. He blinks, shifts his gaze back to mine, a look of surprise on his face.
“Is that right?” I ask, drawing the knife up a little, watching his eyes widen. “Size of your pinkie would you say?”
A line of blood forms on the corner of his mouth and I pull the knife out, letting it fall to the floor as I shoot to my feet, turning the table over so it lands on its side between me and the two at the counter. In one step I’m behind Petrov wrapping bound arms around his neck and drawing his pistol from its shoulder holster.
Over the crashing of the table comes the cocking of guns and I duck behind Petrov, his bulk shielding me as I shoot one of the guards. He goes down as his gun goes off, missing both me and Petrov. I have the advantage of surprise. They didn’t expect this.
The second one is next, the butcher’s knife in his hand will do him no good now as his eyes widen in surprise and I pull the trigger, sending the bullet into his stomach before I turn to the one holding Petrov’s coat.
The least assuming one.
He’s faster than the others. I underestimated him.
His weapon is aimed at my heart but before he pulls the trigger, I shift right. It’s not far enough but it’s not my heart. I stagger backward, my arms linked around Petrov’s head, zip-tied wrists stopping me from falling back.
Pain shoots through me. I glance down at the bloody circle, the bullet lodged in my shoulder. It’s not my shooting arm and I get a shot off before he can. My aim is a hundred times better. The bullet puts him on his knees, eyes still open before a second one between the eyes drops him face first onto the dirty tile floor.
The sound of a gun being cocked comes from the one I got in the stomach, and I turn. We pull our triggers at the same moment. My bullet takes him out but not before his is lodged next to the first in my shoulder.
Pain shoots through me, the room spinning. Petrov moves and I lean closer, stretch the arm of my injured shoulder around his neck getting under the layer of fat that is his chin. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily to manage the pain in my shoulder, forcing in air. I need to finish this. If I pass out now, I’m dead.
I open my eyes and look down. He’s still somehow sitting in his chair, hands on his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers. He’s close to death but not close enough. I force his head up, forearm tight under his throat. Sweat drips from my head onto his face and nausea leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
The knife I used to stab him with is lying at his feet. It’s a steak knife. I don’t miss the irony. I used a steak knife to pin David to that desk.
But now’s not the time to revisit that night. I shift my gaze to Petrov.
“Which of your boys fucked her?”
He groans, and I squeeze my forearm.
“Which. One?”
Nothing.
“Tell me or I’ll kill them both.”
No answer. But to be fair, I’m not sure he can speak judging by the blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
I don’t give a fuck about that though.
“Both it is then.” I set my hand on the side of his head and give one hard jerk, the snapping of bone satisfying even if his death is too swift. “That was for Mara, you sick fuck, you sick son of a fucking bitch.”