The rumor was both Vasilije and Luka had been there to witness their father’s death at Ivan’s hands, and the younger, more ruthless Markovic son didn’t hesitate. Luka Markovic didn’t have the stomach to avenge his father’s death, and had fled to the east coast. Vasilije had killed Ivan and ascended into the position of next in line to run the Markovic business behind Goran.
Vasilije considered my question for a long time. Too long, and an odd sensation prickled over my skin. Ivan had killed Dimitrije. My father had heard it straight from Goran when they’d negotiated the unstable and short-lived truce last year.
“There was a shit-stain named Ivan who died here, down in the basement. A baseball bat, a whole bunch of times, right here.” The devil tapped two fingers to his temple. “That shit was messy. It took forever to clean up.” A slow smile worked its way across his lips, flashing his dimples. “But it was worth it.”
I wasn’t fast enough to hide the tiny burst of satisfaction from my face. I was glad Ivan hadn’t gotten a quick death. A little bit of justice for that poor family he’d murdered.
Vasilije blinked back surprise. “I tell you this guy got brained with a bat, and you don’t look sick. You’re not disgusted. You kinda seem interested.” His expression shifted toward excitement. “Goddamn, Oksana. You want me to tell you all the details? How his blood and brains went everywhere? What his skull looked like, caved in like a rotted pumpkin?”
I shrugged. “If he killed your father—”
A dark, serious expression overtook him. “Ivan murdered a family. Normal, nice fucking people who didn’t have shit to do with anything, all because their daughter was dating my brother.” His eyes hardened. “Your people did that.”
My heart tripped over itself. I was outraged by what my father had ordered, too, and I didn’t want Vasilije to see me as an enemy. “The same ones who’d drug me and put me to work in a brothel? Does that sound like they’re my people?”
Yes. It sounded exactly like my family’s business . . . because it was.
Vasilije took a bite of his food and stared vacantly over my shoulder. I felt him slipping away, and scrambled to find anything to keep the conversation going.
“Was it satisfying? Killing the man who murdered your father?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I thought you said . . .” I was so confused. What did he mean he hadn’t done it? “You didn’t kill Ivan?”
Vasilije leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Was it satisfying killing the guy who’d touched you?”
“No.” I frowned, not liking the topic change or the focus being placed on me. I closed my eyes, unable to look at him as I said it out loud. “And yes.”
A pleased chuckle came from him. “Tell me about it.”
“I don’t want to.”
His eyebrow arched up. “I don’t fucking care.”
I swallowed a breath. I was willing to do a lot to make this work. Sacrifice my body, and do things I wasn’t proud of, but talking about Ilia was a hard line to cross. I grabbed my plate, stood from the table, and marched to the sink.
“Get back here,” he ordered.
The silverware rattled on the plate as I set it down and turned on the water. His chair moved noisily and his angry footsteps pounded toward me, launching my heart into my throat. It was the first time I’d disobeyed him, and I gripped the edge of the sink, preparing myself for his reaction.
A hand latched onto my waist and he reached around me with the other, slapping at the handle to turn the water off. His fingers bit into my flesh, but I stayed quiet.
“What the hell,” he snarled, “makes you think you get to say no to me?”
He spun me around and pressed his hips into mine, pinning me against the counter. He leaned over, forcing me to bend back awkwardly as his cold body loomed above.
“I shot him and he died,” I said in a rush. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“There’s nothing to tell?” He mocked my nervous voice and tangled a hand in my hair, yanking me back further. “Bullshit. Where’d you shoot him? How many times did you pull the trigger? What kind of gun was it?” His intensity built with each question. “What happened after, Oksana?”
“Please,” I whimpered. “You’re hurting me.”
“Talk, and I’ll stop.”
My throat closed up. I couldn’t force my lips to move or my vocal cords to produce sound, and I watched the rage gather in his furious eyes.
It was so scary, it stole my breath.
Abruptly, his grip in my hair was gone and he stepped back. I nearly fell forward into him—and then I was falling as he bent, wrapped his arms around my thighs, and threw me over his shoulder. As he stood, it squeezed a grunt from me. His bony shoulder dug into my stomach, and it was disorienting being upside-down, hanging in the air.