Don’t Be Traitorous Assholes, Because You Will Get Cut. [1/2]
“A man who lies to his family, and lets them mourn a faked death, does not deserve our loyalty…”
The room was dark. Cold enough to chill bone, and yet not the reason for his violent trembling.
It set the mood how she liked it.
There was a talent to making a whisper sound haunting, and Eva Abramovic had long ago perfected it. As she quoted, word-for-word, her colleague’s incriminating statement, her head dipped to his ear. The proximity made him cower like a child, and she hadn’t even touched him yet. Pathetic.
A reputation such as hers came with perks she very much enjoyed. Most within the family knew of an assassin and her notorious methods, but few could place an identity to the warped stories. Not until they found themselves in the room with their antagonist, at least. Then it became all rather obvious.
Even the fighters would succumb to her forced fate; sometimes, before she’d even tried. If they had done something to warrant coming face-to-face with her, they settled quickly with the realization that they weren’t leaving again.
They knew what was coming.
They knew that how much fight they had in them didn’t matter.
“Oh, we’ve heard all about your attempts at provoking a mutiny, Roman…” Dainty fingertips trailed across his bare, hunched-over shoulders. His impressive muscles tensed. Eva fought the urge to sink her nails into his skin. “You should have chosen somebody else to confide in.”
Eva thought he had hit rock bottom when realizing it was she who awaited him, but enjoyed tremendously the knowledge he could still sink lower.
“He gets a promotion for sharing your discontent, and you get me.”
“Eva, please don’t do this,” he muttered, turning his head in an attempt to face her. The bindings that held him to the chair made it near impossible. The struggle amused her almost as much as his pleading eyes. “I’ve been your God damned friend for years. We’ve killed together. I saved your fucking ass in Vilyuchinsk.”
“And, as I recall, I spent many nights making it up to you…” The lips that had once hovered near his ear, now found the icy skin of his neck. The haunting whisper made a triumphant return, “I don’t do IOUs.”
The Russian straightened up, and slowly made her way back around to the front of her victim.
Clearly, he had already taken some damage. The handsome face bore tell-tale signs of resisting his captors; the two enormous men who now flanked the woman, obediently awaiting further orders. Unluckily for them, she didn’t much make a habit of sharing precious moments like these. Aleksandr had tasked her with sending a message. Forcefully reminding their workforce that absence did not invalidate his return, nor his right to assume, once more, his position as leader.
There would be no questioning the chain of command. Not without a calibre of consequences that could rival the darkest corners of even Aleksandr’s imagination.
Eva wasn’t about to disappoint.
It was well known by her boss she shared a good relationship with Roman; a rarity, given the way in which she conducted herself. The woman reasoned that this was likely a test of her loyalty, too, and not a subtle one.
The loyalty to her pay check far surpassed any reserved for her friends. What had to be done to attain it would be.
Just beside her own chair, positioned directly opposite her restrained comrade, was a small table. It presented the tools she deemed necessary for the task at hand. Two of them, to be exact: her knife, a necessity at all times; and an industrial stapler that somehow seemed the more unpleasant of the two.
Eva took her seat, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
“You’re going to tell me about the others,” she assured. That was not up for debate. How long it would take to break him, they both knew, would wind up being the issue. “We know you’re not alone. Unrest among the lower ranks, especially, is rife.”
The scoff he gave in response irked her.
“Save yourself the pain, and me the time, and make this easier on both of us. You needn’t be a martyr for the help.”
It was as much pity as she could muster.
“That’s all you’ve got for me? A knife and a fucking stapler? Where’s the infamous creativity gone, huh? I’m disappointed…” The words held no conviction.
For a moment, she looked at him silently. It was a disappointing image. So much wasted potential.
With a small sigh, she picked up the blade. “Roman…” Her voice was as cold as the room in which they stood. But, perhaps more alarmingly, it was also the calmest she had sounded since the exchange began. “We both know it’s all I need.”
