Pratt.
Bruno Pratt is Seven’s given name, something they clearly know. Aristov did his homework. He knows more than he should.
Reaching to the floor, Aristov grabs a black duffel bag and drops it on top of a square wooden table, surrounded by leather furniture. It lands with a thud. He unzips it, shoving it open, flashing the contents.
Money.
A lot of money.
Stacks and stacks of money.
“A million dollars,” he says, matter of fact, answering an unasked question as he takes a seat in one of the chairs. “All hundred dollar bills.”
My gaze shifts from the money to Aristov. “You doubled the reward.”
He nods. “All you have to do is give me her location so I can bring her home.”
“Home, huh? She told me home was a white house with a red door and wood floors. This doesn’t really fit the bill, Aristotle.”
His expression freezes on his face, his smile like plastic. “That was never her home.”
“You sure about that?”
He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “My sweet girl, she does not know what is best for her.”
“But you do?”
“Of course. Everything I do is for her own good.”
This is for your own good. How many times did I hear those words? Too many, and never once were they genuine. For your own good was synonymous with violence in my life for way too many years.
“What do you want her for?” Seven asks, chiming in. “That’s a lot of money. She must’ve done something to deserve it.”
Aristov looks at him. “You are married, Mr. Pratt, correct? You have a family, yes?”
Seven doesn’t answer, just staring at him, but that’s as good as a ‘yes’ to Aristov.
“I imagine you do everything for them,” Aristov continues. “I am the same way. We are not much different. I do what I must for the ones I love.”
“You love her?” Seven asks. “That’s what you’re saying?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Aristov says. “I love the suka to death.”
Suka.
That word sticks to my mind.
“Seven, why don’t you go get that drink,” I suggest. “Give me a moment alone with him.”
Seven hesitates, like he doesn’t want to go, but he walks out after a moment, leaving me.
Strolling over, I sit down in an empty chair near Aristov, already tired of this little game he’s trying to play. I help myself to a bottle of liquor from the table, examining the label. Russian. “Vodka, I’m guessing?”
Aristov regards me curiously. “Of course.”
It’s half-empty, piss warm, but it doesn’t matter. I crack it open, taking a swig straight from the bottle, and hiss at the intense burn that hits my chest when I swallow.
Aristov laughs. “Good?”
“Strong.”
He swipes the bottle from me and takes a big drink, guzzling it like he’s sucking down water.
“Vodka is like a woman,” he says, pulling bottle from his lips.
“The rougher, the better?”
He offers it to me again. “So you understand.”
Shrugging, I take it back, taking another sip, letting the burn buzz through my system. My tolerance is pretty damn high, since Cuban rum flows through my blood on the regular, but Russian vodka is a whole different ballgame. It’s like gasoline. Paint thinner. I can feel it, my body humming. I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants. He thinks we’re bonding. He thinks if I get drunk, I’ll slip up, but he doesn’t know me.
I’m not giving him shit.
My gaze scans the room as I drink. Aristov is talking, just rambling away about more ways women are like vodka—like how the emptier the bottle gets, the better he feels. I pretend to listen until, well, I don’t give a shit to pretend anymore. Sooner or later he’ll get the message, and I’d prefer it to be sooner rather than later. The only reason I bothered coming is to solve Scarlet’s problem.
My gaze drifts toward a fireplace along the wall, feeling the warmth radiating from the flames, smelling a hint of the woodsy smoke. I admire the fire for as he yammers away before my attention again shifts, this time to the mantle above it.
A teddy bear sits there.
I’m not even kidding.
It’s obviously old, stuffing springing out of holes, missing a goddamn eye, and filthy from scruffy head to charred foot. It’s out of place, surrounded by all of this forced elegance.
Serial killers, you know, they sometimes keep souvenirs. Trophies, they call them, reminders of the shit they’ve done so they can relive the moments again and again. Jewelry. Panties. Photographs. Body parts. Whatever got them off, whatever got the blood pumping down below.
And this bear, glowing like a beacon on the mantle, is screaming trophy at me. My insides coil, my stomach churning more and more the more I look at it. We’re talking about a man with a reputation for trafficking women. He’s in the business of selling bodies. I’m putting nothing past him.
If that bear indicates what my mind is conjuring, I’ll burn this house to the ground with all of us inside of it, just so I die with the pleasure of being able to usher that asshole personally straight to hell in the fire.
“Buster.”
The sound of his voice, louder now, draws my attention. I glance back at Aristov, raising an eyebrow in question. Buster?
“The bear,” he says casually, helping himself to the bottle clutched in my hand, pulling it from my grasp. “It is named Buster.”
“You named the fucking thing?”
He laughs. “I did not name it. It came with the name. A stupid one, I say, but what do you expect from a little girl with so much stupid in her blood?”
He laughs, yet again, the sound running through me, striking something raw and setting me off. I don’t think, just react, pulling my gun out and cocking the son of a bitch, aiming it at his forehead.
Seconds. Mere seconds. That was all it took. My finger hovers on the trigger, lightly pressing it. I’ll blow his fucking brains out.
What kind of sick fuck messes with a little girl?
He stares at me.
He doesn’t cower.
Doesn’t beg.
Doesn’t ask those stupid questions I always get.
No, he takes a swig of vodka, a slight smile on his lips, and just waits, like he doesn’t think I’ll do it. I’m not a man who hesitates, but I’m also not a man used to dealing with such fearlessness.
After a few seconds, while he’s still breathing, he pulls the bottle from his lips, pointing it at me as he asks, “Did she tell you about her?”
“Who?”
“My Morgan,” he says. “Your Scarlet. That is what you call her, no?”
“What about her?”
“Did she tell you about Sasha?”
Sasha.
I don’t answer that, having no idea what he’s talking about, but that’s all the answer he needs.
He laughs yet again.
“Oh, no, of course she has not told you,” he says. “Why would she? Silly man, with a gun... go ahead, shoot me. She will be heartbroken when you do. You will be killing her, too. Either way, I win.”
Before I can do anything, he shoves up from the chair, his forehead momentarily pressing against the muzzle as he rises to his feet. I keep the gun trained on him as he strolls over to the fireplace. He hesitates, standing there, staring at the mantle, before he grabs the bear. His hand wraps around the thing, clutching it by the neck as he approaches.
He drops it on the table in front of me.
“Take it,” he says. “It is only collecting dust here now. I am sure it will make Morgan happy to see it again.”
He steps by me to walk away. I keep the gun trained on him, but I still don’t pull the trigger.
Color me curious. “Who’s Sasha?”
Aristov stalls in the doorway, glancing back at me. I don’t expect him to answer, figuring he’ll give me some line about asking Scarlet, when he lets out a deep sigh and says, “My daughter, of course.”
Daughter.
Of course.
Puzzle pieces I never bothered to connect shove themselves together, like I should’ve already riddled out the bigger picture here. The man has a daughter, and it’s not taking a genius to figure out where he might’ve gotten that daughter.