Heart of Stone - Stone and Fire #1 [17+] (REWRITING)

Chapter 9

Nikolas's POV

"Five seconds. It's generous, but, I wanna see if he has the balls to lie."

My order deepened Mikhail's grin, and he all but shoved the dagger the rest of the way through the bastard's leg. I would wince, but seeing my brother bloodied was a sight I'd yet to find unaccustomed.

"Fuck! Khorosho, Ya pogovoryu!" (Fine, I'll talk.)

My hand went up, and his screams deafened. Russian smugglers weren't uncommon, and sometimes drugs slipped through shipments without anyone noticing- security always had holes unfilled. My part in the two-spies, a division right under the Pakhan's eye, kept track of bastards like the bloodied one in front of us. Overlooking the seeds of manipulation wasn't all, though- my position relied upon not just the physical but also the mental. 

Traitors. Fifth columnists and colluders that relied on their snake-like exploits in the grass to fulfill their urges and go against our red-pervading regime. They fed on people alike, went against orders and cracked the allegiance within the Bratva. Very few were left unspoken, the rest that let themselves become found suffered a wrath unimaginable. 

I've seen it all. Cauterized flesh, torn fingers, throats slit over the span of a day. Heard it. Screams that tore out eardrums, rang a constant reminder in the back of spectator's heads in a Russian saying;

Vernost' razrushayet. Vernost' ubivayet. Vernost' pobezhdayet.

Loyalty ruins. Loyalty kills. Loyalty wins.

Loyalty was bred through each one of us, since the moment we stepped into this sanguinary world of clashing knives and pocketed guns. For most, that was after their first kill. For me, it was when I was a mere boy of thirteen. Blood, cracked ribs, some vodka mixed between it all- the mixture commenced a ruthless, unbred pack of men called the New York Bratva.

"Shit. He won't be up for long. Should I call in the smokers?"

Burning him would make it too easy, and I was rather over the smell of burnt flesh. "No." My eyes narrowed on his slowing chest. "Cut off his dick and call it a day."

Buster's eyes immediately burst opened, and he thrashed in the seat with a speed I'd define as Godsent. "Ivan! It was Ivan, I swear to God." Pathetic tears lines his bloody face, pale with exhaustion and the consequences of stealing things he shouldn't have bothered to look at. 

"Ivan. He gave you the order?" I repeated, steeling my gaze to see if hesitation flickered off his face. It didn't.

"H- He told me to go back and change the numbers. Change the fentanyl's mass back to it's original amount."

Mikhail looked at me with confirmation. He's in track of sideline work and the databases, and smart enough to know whether Buster's telling the truth. Drug numbers stayed static, unless we were ordered to distribute certain numbers before their delivery. For there to be even the smallest decrease of one kind, meant a bleeding crack, filled with silent treachery, had risen. 

"It's a shame you couldn't have spit that out before we dug your grave." I clicked my tongue, disappointed, and his face conjured into horror before slinking panic into his voice.

"I told you. I told you who fucking did it, now let me go." 

Grabbing the switchblade from the table of various torture-inflicting tools, I buttoned my suit jacket on the way to his bloodied chair. "Do you take pride in being a traitor, Buster?" Even his name was the ultimate cover-up for a smuggler. 

"I'm not a traitor." He spoke, voice bleeding with hearth. Hate. I wish I could I say I didn't like it, but the fiery stares of men had became nothing but ice-cold whispers the longer I'd dealt with men like him. I found it entertaining how often they'd try to use guilt as a scape-goat, when they were fully aware their chance at life had disappeared the second we'd caught them. 

Mikhail lifted the bastard's chin with a blade, blood dripping down his naked top-half. "You're Russian, you worked for the Pakhan, and you held a secure position in the Bratva. How the fuck does that not make you a traitor?"

Just like that, Buster's lips sealed. This was their problem. They were prepared only for the action, for the prerequisite. Never the consequences, because their flimsy minds replayed with the delusion that maybe, just maybe, they would win this time.

"Curiosity's always killed the cat, Buster. No matter how hard it stuck it's claws out, it's always led to this moment. You on your knees, half-finished with no winning tactic sent by your leader."

He laughed, crimson peeking through the disturbed grin. "You can kill me. You can kill all of us, and you'll never get what you want." 

My hand itched to slam the gun barrel down his throat and shoot until it went empty. I stood over him, eyes trailing the snake tattoo barreling down his barely-visible neck and down a pale, built body. "A snake, huh?" 

I turned to Mikhail, stepping away and wiping the blood off my hands. Start walking to the warehouse doors, not bothering to glance at the blood-curling grin forming on my brother's face. My fingers curl around the metal handle, already staining it with leftover red. 

Buster's shallow breaths ring from between the waiting silence. I twist the door handle.

"His head goes last."

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cya cuties