in the infirmary the entire time, glad there was a reason important enough not to order the others out so he could be alone with his prisoner. It gave him time to bring himself to a place where he was able to separate what he wanted to do from what he would do. He dug deep and found a detachment. How? By picturing his pet waiting for him. Whenever the urge to kill rose, he jammed Yasmeen’s image in his frontal lobe, and found the distraction he needed. Usually by picturing her sitting on her feet, her hands on the floor in front of her, not a stitch on save for her collar and that tail she’d so beautifully taunted him with. Mmm. He had to fuck her with that dark fur wrapped around his fist. He could work the plug in and out in time to his thrusts and watch her smash to pieces right in front of him.
“Lucian.”
He looked up from where he was staring at the hole in Sergei’s skin and found himself smiling. That must look odd.
“Yes?”
Sorin hadn’t spoken to him the entire trip except in regards to the operation they’d just completed. “Can we get this piece of shit taken care of so we can go home?”
Home. Yes. “Of course.” He waved two of their men over. Both were medically trained. “Take him out to the front lawn.”
As they walked behind the stretcher, he and Sorin had a short discussion. When the surgeon, who came along out of curiosity, deemed Sergei fit for a photo op, Sorin arranged to have some materials waiting for them.
It took some doing, and much direction from the medical professionals, but in the end, Lucian, Sorin, and six of their men stood back to look at their handy work.
“You can’t leave him up for more than a few minutes or he’ll bleed out.”
Lucian nodded. He took his phone out and snapped a photo of Sergei Pivchenko resembling a scarecrow. They’d impaled him on a twenty-foot-long spike that was speared into the ground in the very place Lucian and Markus used to stand and talk when they wanted complete privacy. Not even his professionals had found a way to install listening devices on blades of grass.
“I have what I need,” he said as he turned away. “Take him down.” He stopped next to the surgeon and wasn’t surprised to see Claude and Gheorghe had come out. “You will tend to him just enough so he does not die. I mean no disrespect, Claude, but is this an assignment you would rather pass on?”
“No.”
“Very well. I want regular updates.” As he walked away, he sent a text to every contact he had in his phone. He included the picture he’d just taken. If it came down to it, he would not be afraid to re-enact the tale and add row upon row of spikes, one for every man who dared cross him. “Sorin?”
“I’ll call the airport.”
Lucian nodded. “I will be ready after a shower. I suggest you take one, too.”
As they entered the house, three Dobermans sprung up from where they were sprawled around the foyer. Their nails ticked as they came to Lucian and Sorin, stubby tails wagging, ears down. Their chains jangled as they were greeted with subdued strokes.
A man appeared under the arch that led to the living room, and further down, a rec room that didn’t get much use. Zlatan Novak. He was over six feet, lean and deceptively relaxed. He had dark hair, and eyes that were as blue as the Mediterranean. Currently, they were trained on the iPad in his hand.
After a moment, he lifted his head and nodded, raising the device. “I have news I think you might want to hear.”
Highly doubtful. Lucian motioned him to go on.
“Before he was taken down, your lawn ornament tried to kill Alek Tarasov. Apparently, Vasily took the bullet in his nephew’s place. He was hit in the chest, and that was after he’d already taken one to the gut only moments before. Davidenko still has him in his operating room.”
Lucian didn’t do or say anything for a moment. He stood there and tried to find the affection he held for the leader of the Tarasov Bratva. It was as if he was seeing it through an impenetrable glass case; he just couldn’t reach it. But it was there.
“Where have they taken him?”
Zlatan texted, and got an answer. “Kirov says they are still in the infirmary in Vasily’s home.”
“Send