Indebted to the Mafia King
Somewhere in New York

Dante

My wrists burn from twisting them against the zip cuffs, my ankles chafe from the same treatment around the legs of the chair, my shoulders ache from how far my arms have been pulled back, my faces throbs from how many times these goddamn bruisers have hit me, but all I can think about is El.

I should be home in bed with her right now, fighting with whatever fiddly little fixtures they put on her wedding dress. She should be screaming my name. I should be screaming hers.

Instead, I'm sitting in a musty-ass basement, bound to a metal chair under one flickering light like these assholes got their set-up right out of an '80s mafia movie. I spit blood on the concrete floor and look up at the man who "arrested" me in the middle of my goddamn wedding.

"So tell me," I say, "how do you go from Coppola to the Russians?"

That, of course, earns me another punch to the face. I grit my teeth and take it.

"Cuteness isn't going to get you far," Jace growls. "I'm here to get answers, and I'm happy to take them back with a pound of flesh."

"I hope a pound of flesh is answer enough, 'cause it's all you're getting," I reply.

"You cocky son of a bitch." He pulls back for another hit.

"Hold." The thick, heavily accented voice echoes from a corner of this fucking room too dark for me to see into yet.

I twist as much as I can in my bounds anyway, ignoring the way my skin screams. "We got an audience? You should've let me know, I could've performed better."

Jace snarls. Out of the shadows steps a muscle bound man in a dove gray suit that fits him with the unmistakable precision of custom work. He's skipped a tie, leaving his white shirt open to show a bed of silvery chest hair that matches the coif on his head. His jaw makes him look like a bruiser, but the tip of one highly decorative star peeking out through the chest hair indicates a twin on his other shoulder and a highly ranked criminal.

I've never seen his face before, but I have a sense I already know who I'm talking to.

"Fyodor," I say. "Or do you prefer Raskolnikov?"

He chuckles, low and dangerous. "I like a cocky man."

I grin. "Then you're going to be thrilled with me."

"They are much more fun to break." Fyodor nods to Jace.

Before I can brace for the impact, Jace slams his fist into my gut, and I fold. My stomach riots. I gasp in a breath and straighten as quickly as I'm able.

"What's the point?" I hiss. "Aren't your men powerful enough to just take the city by force?"

Fyodor scoffs. "Of course they are. But you and I both know any boss worth his salt misses the streets when he leaves them."

So I can't goad him into violence by taunting his abilities. Maybe by taunting him in general. I need a new tactic.

"I'm, what, a playmate for you?" I smirk. "You know, I got married tonight, so that should've told you my "

Jace smashes a metal baton into my knee, and I choke down a yell. Someone grabs my hair and yanks my head back up. I stare into Fyodor's nearly white-gray eyes.

"I do know this," he says. "Why do you think I took you tonight? You Italians always need a reminder that you're not nearly as invincible as you seem to believe." "Arresting me is a shitty power play," I reply. "I don't even think Jace has his badge anymore."

"Ha! You think we need badges?" Fyodor's smile is vicious. "Goes to show how small your mind is."

The pain is starting to blot out my higher-thinking skills. I know one thing for certain: I'm not going to break down here. I hope to hell I'm not going to die. A quick check reveals my wedding ring still nestled on my finger, and posing as two fucking feds, the Russians couldn't exactly put a dent in my men. Or El. So she'll have already remembered that, and they'll be on their way to me just as soon as they can. I start rubbing one of the jagged edges of one of the stones against the plastic of the cuffs. All I need to do is keep my mouth shut long enough to survive.

That's never been my way. The word "rat" keeps circling in my head. If anyone knows who it is, it's Fyodor. And I can't go home without making sure this can't happen again.

"Fine. Help out a moron then." I look up at him, trying to seem tired. "What the hell did I miss?"

Fyodor laughs again. "Too easy, Italian. I know you are not done so early." He shakes his head. "But equally I know you're never leaving this basement alive, and there wasn't shit you could do anyway. Fine, then. Perform for me."

Half a dozen blows with the baton land in rapid succession. My shoulder, my knee again, my ribs. I can feel bones cracking, taste nothing but blood. All I have down here is my pride.

And the certainty El is coming. So I yell for Fyodor, feeling as low as a fucking snake when he smiles with sick pleasure.

"Good, good."

Jace stops.

"You are not so polite to your pets," Fyodor says. "Young Henry was quite happy for a kinder master."

Fucking Henry Alcott. El warned me, and I ignored her. Hell, Tony warned me. I never should've gotten in bed with him. And now, he's ruined my goddamn wedding.

Oh, I'm going to destroy him when I get out of here.

"Why just take me, then?" I wheeze. "Henry hates us all."

"That he does." Fyodor inclines his head to me like he's a teacher, and I'm his pupil. "But young Henry needs to learn patience. And I only need you. Who else? Should I take your blushing bride, before the whole city remembers they want her blood to run in the streets for her crimes? Your half-dead caporegime, still sick with grief over his baby brother?" He laughs. "No, your Saints will destroy themselves prettily without you."

My blood burns. "Keep them out of your fucking mouth."

Fyodor just laughs and gestures to Jace, who lets loose again.

He must've paid Henry to turn. Whatever the fuck else that scum-sucker is, he knows Tony's nonna, his nonna, is going to get caught up in this. Jace would've flipped for a candy bar, but Henry doesn't want that.

"You're going to have to kill me," I say.

"That can be arranged," Fyodor replies.