Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

out, and together we put him into the back of the Escalade. Yelisey climbs in with him. While I speed away, he secures the prisoner with zip ties and duct tape.

My hands are steady. My head is clear. I need one thing out of this ublyudok, and I look forward to getting it.

The streets are still busy with tourists and people trolling for trouble, but I have no problem getting to the compound. I pull into the driveway and nod to Yelisey. “Take him to the guesthouse. I’m going to check on my daughter then I’ll be along. No one touches him until I arrive.”

Yelisey nods. “Da.” It frustrates him when I step on his toes in matters like this, but for me, today, this is personal. My responsibility. And soon, it will be my pleasure.

When I walk inside the house, there is an unnatural quiet. Well, unnatural these days, with Charlotte gone. No humming. No shrieks of joy as she and Tiana race across the wooden floors in slippery socks. No murmured bedtime stories.

Worst of all, no laughter.

Tiana has barely smiled that I can remember since Charlotte left.

Since I made her leave. The guilt is strong. Stronger than I would expect, since I had no choice. I did what I had to. Blyad.

It doesn’t matter what spin I give it; the fault is mine.

I check on Tiana. Her blonde curls peek out from underneath her blanket, and I smile. In the short time I’ve had her, she’s changed so much already. Grown. Learned.

But right now, I don’t have time for appreciation. Right now, I am not Kostya Zinon, father. I am Kostya Zinon, don of the Bratva, embroiled in a war with some silly little men from Ireland who think they can take what’s mine.

I pull her door closed and walk down the hallway as the new nanny walks toward me. “Mr. Zinon.” She nods and walks past me. This one is younger—early twenties with horn-rimmed glasses and a wool cardigan. Her skin flushes when I speak to her and she hasn’t made eye contact yet. But it’s Tiana’s bedtime, and she’s in bed. That’s all that matters.

So instead of heading straight to the guesthouse and into the room where I will extract my pound of flesh from Whelan’s soldier, I go to my office, pour vodka into a glass, and try not to think of Charlotte. Not as the woman I slept with, but as someone important to my daughter and to my business.

I need to keep my head clear and putting Charlotte into any other category right now could end up making me kill Whelan’s scum before I get the information I need. I’ve promised Yelisey this kill. He’s been itching for a while and needs to get it out of his system.

After my second glass, my nerves are steel.

It’s time.

The guesthouse is far enough from the house the noise shouldn’t bother the new nanny or Tiana, especially with the soundproofing improvements I’ve had installed since last time I used the pool room. I walk across the yard, my own force of nature. Enough to make a cat on the property scurry away from my path, slinking along the shadows.

The air is warm and the scent of smoke is in the air from the fires raging across the state of California, but I am singularly focused on the man I’m about to question.

The upstairs room is heavily curtained now. From the outside, I can see no light coming from inside, although I know the room is lit with bulbs bright enough to cause blindness. It’s not the only torture I’ll inflict before the sun comes up.

Yelisey is seated across the room, wearing goggles, leather gloves, even an apron. I don’t often watch him do this anymore, and I’m not going to tonight.

Tonight, he’s going to watch me.

Three of my other men—Nicholai, Dmitri, and Pavel—are also seated, sunglasses on, and waiting for me to get on with this.

But none is so interested as Whelan’s man, who watches my every move.

He knows who I am.

“What’s your name?” I begin.

My knowing isn’t going to save his life tonight. I’m curious. I’ll also want to tell Whelan how his man begged me for mercy. And he will beg; I know that for certain.

Sooner or later, every man cracks.

Instead of answering, he spits on the floor. My backhand is swift and draws blood. A line trickles from the corner of his mouth. “What is your name? And know that I won’t ask you again.”

He cocks an eyebrow. An invitation to beat him. A challenge to see how much I will do before I move onto the next question he’ll refuse to answer. I don’t back down from any challenge. Ever. This time, I slam my fist into his gut. There’s no time for him to prepare his body, to flex his stomach muscles to accept the punch. He’s soft, and his breath whooshes out.

“Never mind. Whelan will have your head to identify you. I don’t need your name. I was merely being polite.”

He growls in response.

“The woman you took. Where is she?”

When he doesn’t answer, I go for his face. Not his jaw, because I need him to talk. But his cheekbone gives way neatly, like snapping a matchstick.

“Where is she?” I repeat.

When he still says nothing, I nod to Dmitri. He knows what’s next.

When Dmitri returns, there isn’t much question what’s about to happen and to his credit, my prisoner doesn’t flinch. Could be because I’ve broken his cheekbone and he can’t or it could be that this one is more courageous than I give any of Whelan’s men credit for.

Doesn’t matter. There’s a bucket of water with a sea sponge and a battery charger on the table. Just the sight has made lesser men blanch, spill their secrets, and those they’re trusted to keep for others. But this one lifts his chin and stares.

This is Yelisey’s favorite part. I’m hard-pressed to deny such a loyal man his joy. I nod