Scamming the Devil

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IRINA VOLKOV

The elevator opened onto a different floor and Roman stepped out still talking, gesturing broadly, clearly proud of everything his brother had built. He loved Nikolai — that much was obvious. Not blindly, not without awareness of what Nikolai was, but with the particular loyalty of someone who had seen the worst of a person and chosen to stay anyway.

I filed that away and said nothing.

Roman cracked jokes to lighten me up—he’s funny no doubt. He took me through the compound properly — the war room where Nikolai's men sat around a long table, all suits and stillness and eyes that tracked movement like they'd been trained to. A security hub with monitors covering every angle of every entrance. A second gym with a sparring ring at the center, chalk dust on the floor, the smell of effort and discipline.

The men nodded at Roman with easy familiarity. They looked at me with careful, neutral assessment. I stayed close to Roman's shoulder and smiled at no one.

And guess what?

All this while—I mapped everything.

Every corridor. Every exit point. Every guard rotation I could observe. Roman was giving me the blueprint of this place without realizing it, pointing out rooms and functions with the cheerful generosity of someone who had no idea he was being studied. I noted the guards stationed at the building's exterior. I noted the timing between patrols.

I just needed the right moment. I'd find it.

“…. underground hotel, our last stop.” Roman's voice pulled me back.

He'd been building toward this one all tour, mentioning it with that particular gleam. I looked at him.

"Underground hotel," I repeated. "What exactly goes on down there?"

"We keep unwanted guests." He grinned. "Come on."

He was already moving. I followed..

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The hallway changed before I registered exactly how. The light thinned. The air dropped in temperature. The noise of the compound above us faded until the only sound was our footsteps on concrete and something else — something distant and irregular that I couldn't name yet.

What the hell is this place?

"I don't think I should be here," I said.

"It's fine. I just want to show you something." Roman glanced at me sideways. "Nikolai's down here anyway."

"I thought he went out—"

"He came back. He has some matters to handle." A pause. "Brace yourself a little."

That should have been enough warning. It wasn't.

We were still ten meters from the door when I heard it — a sound that went through me like cold water. A man's cry, raw and animal, stripped of any performance.

Pure pain.

“The show is on.” Roman chuckled.

My steps slowed. Roman didn't stop, so I followed, because stopping alone in this hallway felt worse than continuing.

The door was open.

Roman walked in. I stopped at the threshold.

The room was almost entirely dark except for a single bulb hanging at the center and a strip of pale light from a ventilation grate near the ceiling — enough to tell whether it's night or day. And enough to feel anything but dread. A man hung suspended in the middle of the room, ankles bound, body upside down, hands tied behind his back. He was covered in wounds — some fresh and bleeding freely, some older and crusted. The kind of damage that accumulated over hours.

Jesus christ.

Nikolai crouched in front of him, holding a cheese grater.

A cheese grater. I pressed my hand to my mouth.

God, I wasn’t ready for this.

If he knew I was there, he didn't show it. His attention was entirely on the man in front of him — focused, unhurried, the way a craftsman looks at his work.

"I'll use this next," he said, his voice conversational, almost gentle, "if you don't tell me what I need to know."

"I will tell you no s**t. Go to hell." The man spat blood with the words.

Yeah, I had already told him that too. He really needs to go to hell.

"I'm already there." Nikolai set the grater down slowly and looked up at the man's face. "And I'll take you with me. So make a decision — tell me what I want, or I start with you and work outward. Your family. Your associates. Everyone." A pause. "You know what I'm capable of. You wouldn't be here if you didn't."

The man said nothing for a moment. Then laughed — short, defiant, wet with blood. "I'm not telling you anything."

"All your men are dead. I killed them." Nikolai said it without inflection.

“The f**k?! They mattered to me!” The man shouted.

"The way my men mattered to me. The men you got killed like they cost nothing." Something shifted in his voice — just slightly, just enough. "You don't touch my people."

Nikolai stood. Turned to the shadows on the far side of the room. "Dmitri."

"Do what you want." The man's jaw was set. "I won't talk."

"Alright."

A figure I hadn't noticed since I walked into the room, stepped forward — black hair, sharp green eyes, a small precise knife held loosely in one hand. He glanced at me as he passed the doorway. Not surprise. Just acknowledgment. He handed Nikolai the knife and took the grater without being asked.

"Your eyes," Nikolai said, bringing the blade level with the man's face, "sent to your family in a box. Or you tell me who gave the order. Those are your options."

The man went rigid. His mouth sealed shut. Fear in his eyes.

Nikolai drew the knife slowly from the man's jaw to his cheekbone. Blood came immediately, and the man screamed — curses, threats, names I didn't recognize. Nikolai waited until the sound died down.

"Continue?"

"No — stop, I'm not going to—"

The knife went into his shoulder. Dragged downward.

The scream that followed turned my stomach inside out.

“Arghh! You son of a b***h! I will kill you!” The man grunted in pain.

“No, I will kill you first if you still don’t tell what I need!” Nikolai replied, Impatient.

Tears were burning my eyes before I knew they were there.

I turned to Roman. "I want to leave. Now."

"Aw, Lady Irina, not a fan?" Roman's voice was light but his eyes were watching me carefully. "That's a shame."

I didn't answer. The urge to be sick was already moving through me and I turned to the nearest corner and lost everything that remained of Roman's lunch, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to my mouth.

God, this is horror.

When it was over I straightened, wiped my face, and walked toward the door.

"Dmitri." Nikolai's voice — quiet, directive.

Dmitri was at the door before I reached it. He didn't grab me, didn't threaten. Just stood there, immovable, a wall in a suit.

"Move." I pushed against him with both hands. He didn't shift a centimeter.

Fucking strong.

Footsteps behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know.

"Roman." Nikolai's voice, closer now. "Take over."

Oh, so he finally noticed my presence.

"Oh, finally." Roman sounded genuinely pleased. I heard him move toward the suspended man with an energy that made my skin crawl.

A brief sound — the knife changing hands.

“Dmitri, go check Alaric goods and see if it’s ready for delivery. I will send some details for you to look into.” He said Dmitri.

Then Dmitri stepped aside. I walked out immediately, fast, faster than my legs wanted to carry me, back down the cold hallway toward the elevator. Behind me I could hear Nikolai's footsteps, unhurried, keeping pace.

Go. Now. This is your moment.

My eyes moved to the corridor ahead, the building's edge, the guards I'd mapped all afternoon. I calculated the distance. The timing. The gap between rotations I'd clocked on the tour.

Now. While he's distracted. While Dmitri is below.

I kept walking. Faster.