“Whoever it was has balls of steel.” The men all started laughing. “Balls that are soon to be in a jar sitting atop his desk.” The laughing became louder and I moved closer.
“I heard he captured a couple men last night, cut off a few digits, even one of their tongues. Vladimir slapped it between two slices of white bread and made him eat it.” The whole table lifted up their shots of vodka, saluting Na Zdorovie, and then tossing them back before slamming the glasses back on the table.
“Can you fucking imagine? Being forced to eat your own tongue. How does that even work? How does he chew?”
Another round of laughter.
I wasn’t surprised that Vladimir was resorting to cutting off fingers and tongues for not getting the information he wanted.
“I hope whoever took her is having a fun time with her.”
I ground my teeth and stared at the bastard who spoke.
“I know what I’d do if I had her.”
One of the men smacked the other one on the back in good humor, all of their grins ear-to-ear, their sick perversions on display.
“I bet her pussy is tighter than a vise and tastes like spun sugar.” His voice was slurred and his laughter too loud. “Her tits are too small and she’s built without curves, but that cunt’s gonna strangle a cock.”
The fucker’s confidence was going to get him killed.
“When they are cold bitches like that one, thinking they are too good for everyone else, you know the fucking will be good ’cause they’ll fight back.”
That was all I had to hear, some piece of shit saying nasty things about my Anastasia, and a switch inside of my brain was flipped on.
I watched him for the rest of the night, stood in the shadows as he tossed down shot after shot.
And then when he left, stumbling out the front and making his way around to the alley, I followed close behind, being stealthy and quiet.
It wouldn’t matter if he knew I was coming because his death would be painful regardless.
I could have easily taken him out in this abandoned alley. No witnesses. Just snap his neck and let his body rot until the smell became too much.
But I wanted him to look me in the eyes as I killed him for uttering Anastasia’s name, for insulting her and saying fucked-up shit about what was mine.
And I’d do that with the streetlights illuminating the gore I’d deliver and the possibility of someone seeing us out here in the open.
Because it was more thrilling when the hunter was being watched.
He reached into his coat pocket, and I could hear the sound of his keys jangling. Then he started humming an old Russian song I remembered, one that I’d heard plenty of times when the spectators of my fights would sling back shots of vodka as they celebrated their victories.
There was a streetlight right beside his car, muted piss-yellow coloring washing over the vehicle.
He stumbled toward it, leaning against the driver’s side as he tried to unlock it. I reached him before he could unlock the door, standing just a foot from him, smelling the stench of sweat and booze pouring off of his greasy body.
He was a foot shorter than me, and heavily overweight. I didn’t know who he was, but I could assume he was higher ranking in the Bratva. He wouldn’t last ten minutes out in the streets as a foot soldier, not with that physique.
I noticed the moment the piece of shit realized I stood right behind him. His shoulders tightened and he straightened, as much as he could given his inebriated state.
He tried to play it cool, starting to whistle that Russian song as he reached into his coat pocket, presumably for his gun.
I wanted to drag this out, to make him suffer because he dared utter Anastasia’s name on his tongue. But I wanted to get back to her. I wanted to let her know that I’d take care of everything, make sure it was safe so that she never had to worry about being used as a pawn again.
I pulled out my hunting knife, reached around and wrapped my forearm around his barrel chest, and jerked him back against me.
He fought for a second, his stocky build making him feel like a bag of bricks.
But I was fast. I’d been killing all my life.
So I brought that blade across his neck, opening up his throat and seeing his life-force spray across the driver’s side window of his car.
I took a step back from him, wiping my blade on his coat before sheathing it again. He turned and faced me, his eyes widening when he realized who stood behind him.
His hands were up by his throat as he tried to close the wound, gasping and gurgling, blood spilling out of his mouth.