Max Ferrara had saved my life. He’d grabbed me out of the street before that car could hit me, and he’d gently checked my injuries. He’d insisted on walking me home and seeing me safely inside.
And he still wanted to punish my father for some imaginary sin. Max had sworn that he would leave me alone, but I didn’t think for one second that he was out of my life for good.
Chapter 7
Max
The blood on my hands irritated me. Usually, I didn’t even notice the hot, thick slide down my fingers while I went to work with my knife. But now…
Mere hours ago, I’d been touching Alexandra with these hands. She’d been shockingly soft and feminine in a way I’d forced myself to forget. It’d been two years since I’d touched any woman, and in that time, my world had been coated in blood.
Alexandra was innocent, completely removed from this ugly, violent world. She’d been so delicate and warm in my arms, clinging to me for protection.
My stomach soured, and my mouth twisted in a grimace. The man tied to the chair before me whimpered at the horror of my fearsome expression, but my scowl wasn’t directed at him.
Protection. The thought was ridiculous. I was no one’s protector, especially not Ron Fitzgerald’s daughter.
When that stupid high heel had turned her ankle, I’d acted on instinct to pull her out of the way of traffic. It was the least I could do, since I’d terrorized her in my basement. She was entirely oblivious to her father’s corruption, but I couldn’t take back what I’d done to her.
Blood seeped into my shirt as I rubbed against the strange ache at the center of my chest. Holding her had felt good. Having her hold on to me had felt good.
Pathetic. Acid coated my tongue. The only reason she hadn’t recoiled from me was because she’d been shaken up from almost getting run over.
I should’ve left her alone as soon as I pulled her to safety. But I’d stayed with her. I’d checked her for injuries. I’d insisted on walking her to her door, like we were on some kind of goddamn date and I was a fucking gentleman.
I released a frustrated growl, and the man tied to the chair cowered.
“Please,” he begged. “I have children.”
I rolled my eyes, impatient to get past the point of lies. “No, you don’t. I picked you because no one will really miss you. Will they, Kirill?”
My blade glinted in the spare light of the single bulb overhead, and he screamed.
Alexandra had been tied to this same chair not very long ago. She’d screamed, too.
The ache in my chest intensified, and I grimaced. I’d made sure not to hurt her. My ruined face alone had been enough to make her weep.
But she hadn’t wept when I’d saved her from getting hit by that car. She hadn’t been particularly grateful, either. She’d huffed at me and warned me to stop my vendetta against her father.
As though that would ever happen.
Questioning her had gotten me nowhere. I’d frightened an innocent woman, and the memory of her tear-streaked face made my stomach turn.
Taking her had been a terrible mistake. She didn’t deserve my retribution. But scum like Kirill did.
The man trafficked heroin for the Bratva. He was one of the most important men I’d ever dared to grab, but I was getting desperate. I couldn’t risk drawing the full ire of the Russians, not when my family was so vulnerable—half of us were still imprisoned. But if Kirill talked, it would be worth it.
“You know something about your boss’ ties to Ron Fitzgerald.” I said it like a condemnation, a known fact. “Tell me.”
The whites of his eyes were huge, his brown irises thin rings around dilated pupils. He licked his bloody lips. “Mr. Ivanov’s relationship with Fitzgerald is purely political. That’s all I know. It’s exactly what it looks like.”
Yes, it was public knowledge that Mikhail Ivanov, billionaire businessman, was an ardent supporter of Ron Fitzgerald’s politics. What the public didn’t know was that Ivanov controlled the Bratva in New York, and Fitzgerald knew all about it.
I bared my teeth and leaned in close, allowing him to get a good look at my horrific face. The scar was an indelible mark of my deepest shame, but I’d also learned to use it to my benefit. I’d been tempered by agony, but I’d survived. Now, my outer appearance mirrored the monstrous things I was capable of. I would do whatever it took to restore my family to their rightful place. To restore my own honor.
Kirill cringed, but there was nowhere for him to go. He would never leave this basement alive. How much pain he endured was up to him.
The memory of Alexandra’s suffering might shred me like a knife, but I was coolly detached from Kirill’s agonized pleas. He wasn’t quite human, so hurting him meant nothing to me.
I shifted my knife so that it gleamed before his eyes, allowing him to see the drops of his own blood that I’d already drawn—a warning that I would take more if he didn’t answer my questions.
“I want proof,” I hissed. “Evidence that Fitzgerald is corrupt. You’re going to tell me where I can find some, or I’ll make this last a whole lot longer.”
“Wait, wait!” He swallowed hard, and his eyes darted around the room as though to check he wouldn’t be overheard. “I don’t have any evidence, but Kelvin McCrae does. He bragged to me about it one time when we were gambling in one of his buildings. Everyone knows how McCrae likes to brag.”
The man was babbling, but I leaned back and nodded for him to continue. My posture was expectant, casual. But I scarcely dared to breathe in case I missed a single nuance of this confession.
Kelvin McCrae was one of the richest men in the country, and he was a close personal friend to Fitzgerald. McCrae had a reputation for being a big personality, which was rich-people speak for obnoxious asshole. He wanted everyone to acknowledge that he was a clever businessman, and he desperately wanted prestige.
When Kirill said that McCrae had bragged to him, I believed it. The billionaire real estate developer was known for making shady sales to foreign investors. Like shady Russian businessman Kirill here. McCrae wasn’t Ivanov, but I knew that the man had strong ties to the Bratva, just like Fitzgerald.
“What did McCrae tell you?” I demanded when Kirill stalled out on a desperate sob. The scent of urine soured the dank air.
“H-he bragged that he’s more powerful than the mayor. He has insurance in case Fitzgerald ever turns on him. He said something about the circumstances of his wife’s death.”
“She died in a fire,” I prompted, impatient for him to gasp less and talk more. Everyone knew that Marie Fitzgerald had tragically died in a house fire ten years ago. It was part of Ron Fitzgerald’s story of personal loss and resilience.
Kirill shook his head vigorously. “It sounded like more than that. Whatever it was, McCrae helped Fitzgerald cover it up. He kept the receipts, just in case.”
My heart hammered against my ribcage. This was the closest I’d ever gotten to real proof of the beloved mayor’s corruption.
I pressed my knife to Kirill’s throat. My hand shook slightly from a rush of anticipation, and the blade nicked the delicate skin by his artery.
“What kind of receipts? What did they cover up?”