Ghost (Boston Underworld #3) - A. Zavarelli Page 0,86
walk in here with only one other man and attempt anything.
But they are wrong, on both counts.
Arman is sitting at his dining table as he always is. Stuffing his face full of food and drink.
“Mr. Nikolaev.” He greets me as though we are old friends.
What he really sees when he looks at me is dollar signs. Money. The thing that makes the world go round. The thing that keeps his table bountiful and fresh slaves in his basement whenever his heart desires.
“Good evening, Arman,” I greet him in an equally friendly manner.
His eyes move to Nikolai, but I don’t bother to introduce them.
“I am here to discuss the return of your cherished slave,” I announce. “And also, my friend would like to see what other merchandise you have available.”
“Of course, of course.” He wipes his hands and stands up from the table. “I will show you the catalog of my current inventory.”
“I don’t mean arms,” I interrupt him. “I mean women.”
“Oh.” He blinks in surprise.
Arman won’t want to part with another slave. But it’s the cost of doing business. I know he will show us the one he values least. Most likely the one who took Talia’s place when we left.
And I also know, she will be kept in the basement. Away from his guards.
“Now that you mention it,” he says. “I have something I believe you will like.”
He leads the way downstairs, and he doesn’t ask his guard to follow. Again, I can feel Nikolai’s eyes on me. Something about this is not right.
Arman is not acting suspiciously at all. He trusts himself alone in my presence. And even I am beginning to question his behavior.
When he opens the door to the cell, I do not even glance at the slave. My hands come around his throat from behind, cutting off his air supply.
“Keep her quiet,” I tell Nikolai.
He moves towards the girl in the corner who looks so much like Talia when I first discovered her. I meet her terrified gaze as I choke Arman and realize that perhaps I am mistaken. This girl still feels. Talia did not. Perhaps that should have been my first sign.
Arman struggles in my arms, but it is futile. He is stout and old and not trained to protect himself. And the anger swelling inside of me is driving my control now.
I remove the knife from the sheath under my jacket and plunge it into his gut twice.
He crumples to the floor, gasping for breath as I kneel beside him. I dig the tip of the knife into his forehead until it hits bone.
“Tell me why you sent her those photos,” I demand. “Did she ask you for them?”
He stares up at me, and the shock and confusion on his face is genuine. It produces a sinking feeling inside of me.
But I know I am not wrong. I could not have been so wrong.
Talia has betrayed me, and I am determined to find out why. To prove it once and for all. I will pursue this belief to hell and back until I have my answers. My proof. When Arman does not answer me, I flay open his cheek.
He is bleeding from the gut, and it will not be long until he is dead.
“Time is running out,” I press.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he sputters. “Please…”
“Please?” I mock him. “Did Talia ever ask you please?”
His eyes are answer enough. And I don’t know why it matters to me. This is not for the purpose of avenging her. I have to remind myself of that when I look at him.
“I did not send her any pictures.”
I sigh and retrieve my phone from my pocket. There are a number of missed calls from Viktor, which I ignore as I pull up the evidence.
And then I show Arman, flipping through the grainy photos, watching him carefully.
Again, his eyes register shock and disbelief, and my stomach turns.
“You sent these to her.”
“Those must be from her training,” he says. “Before I purchased her.”
It sounds like a question. And I can see the question in his eyes. But I don’t want to see it. Because that means I was wrong.
I slice open his other cheek and then dig the knife into his throat.
“Answer me.”
“I swear to you,” he says. “It was not me. Dmitri. You need to speak with Dmitri.”
I grab him by the shirt and slam him down into the cement, my arms shaking from the force of my rage. “Dmitri is already dead.”