ELENA DUVAL
Dicky shook his head frantically. “No, please,”
Dimitri wrapped his hand around his throat and lifted him until he stood on tiptoes and his face was turning red. Then he tossed him against the counter, and Dicky collided against the nicely arranged wine glasses and bottles.
Dimitri unsheathed his knife and before I could as much blink, he pierced it through Dicky's wrist.
I fought the urge to look away, even as Dicky's scream bounced against the walls. Blood splattered around, dripping from the table and mixing with the watery mess of alcohol on the floor.
And like he had done this a million times, Dimitri skillfully tore through until Dicky's hand fell into the pool of blood.
I swallowed the bile in my throat as Dimitri straightened. His hands and clothes were stained w
