“Call off your men and the other bratva leaders, Mikhail, to end the tyranny on the Italians.”
His dark eyes shine under the overhead lamplight. “I’d sooner die than help your men,” Mikhail says. He stares at Aleksandra, and his top lip snarls as he glances her up and down. “Traitor.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “I’m not working withhim,” she says, pointing at me. “I’m a prisoner too.”
“Right.” Mikhail rolls his eyes. “You seem like quite the prisoner. Where is he letting you stay, his bedroom?”
“How dare you!” Aleksandra turns to face me. “Let me in there. I’ll kill him for you.”
While I don’t think she means it, she’s undoubtedly feisty enough to try, but I’m not about to watch her spat with her older brother.
“That’s not going to happen,” I say. She can’t really want me to let her into his cell. It has to be a trick so that she can aid in his escape. I wouldn’t put the idea past her. She’s already tried to steal my gun.
Mikhail takes a step back, and he doesn’t appear the least bit unsettled. He laughs under his breath and shakes his head. “I never expected a Barinov to fuck a Moretti. You’re no longer one of us, little sister.”
“What?” Her voice catches in her throat, and I swear there’s a tear glistening in her eyes. “I’m not—we’re not together,” Aleksandra says.
“You’re just on the other side of the prison cell to convince me to talk?” Mikhail asks with a laugh. “You’re dead to me, Aleksandra. Enjoy playing house with your new family. And if you decide to return to the compound, I can promise you that those little brats won’t see the light of day.”
She turns to run up the stairs, and I consider stopping her, but instead, I let her go.
“Do you enjoy tormenting women and children?” I ask as I approach the prison cell. I don’t open the wrought iron doors. If I did, I might kill him with my bare hands.
Mikhail stretches his arms and interlocks his fingers behind his head. A moment later, his arms drop to the side. “It beats being cooped up in a prison cell. When I get out, Antonio, you can count on me coming after your entire organization.”
“You’ve already come after us. Why do you think you’re locked in our prison?”
“For sport?” Mikhail chuckles and plops down onto the floor. There’s no cot and no bed.
I don’t trust that he wouldn’t hang himself with bedsheets if given the opportunity. And while the idea is tempting, Mikhail dead doesn’t help the situation.
I haven’t heard any indication that they intend to retaliate, but the longer he stays in our prison, the higher chance of the bratva invading our home. And keeping Aleksandra on the premises isn’t going to save us in the slightest.
I leave Mikhail. There are enough mafia dons and interrogators under our roof to handle one man.
I find Aleksandra at the top of the steps, heading up the stairs, the door shut. I don’t say anything, not wanting her brother to overhear us. I open the door and let her step out onto the main floor. I lock the door behind us. Not that Mikhail is capable of escaping, but just in case, it’s an extra level of security.
“Antonio,” Aleksandra’s voice is soft and fragile. Her eyes are crinkled, and she’s holding back her sobs, at least outwardly.
I pull her against the wall, out of earshot of my men, for a bit of privacy.
Otello stands outside the entrance to the prison in the main hall, chatting with Mario. “Catch you later,” Otello says to Mario as he gives me a nod and hurries down to the prison cellar to watch Mikhail.
His job is to make sure nothing happens to the prisoner unless I order. I’ll send Aurielo, one of the mafia’s finest interrogators, whom Alessandro brought with him, and let my interrogator, Jacopo, accompany him.
Between the two men, I anticipate swift results.
“You’re safe here. None of my men will lay a finger on you or your children.” Is that what she’s worried about? I try to quell her nerves, but I worry it’s something I can’t quickly fix.
She rolls her lips together and glances away, her gaze far and distant. “Please, don’t hurt Mikhail. I know he’s a bastard, but he’s my brother.” Her voice cracks as she finally catches my stare. Our gaze locks on each other.
“I assure you that I won’t lay a finger on him.”
I won’t promise that my men won’t torture him to get him to talk.
Her brow is knitted, and her bottom lip trembles.
“You have my word that he will be treated far kindlier than any man the bratva detains,” I say.