58

Mikhail
Rurik, Anton, and I stand in the center of a secure warehouse in Port Newark. Anton’s jumpy gaze scans the vast, cavernous space where a shipment recently left for Rotterdam. Rows of empty metal shelves line the concrete walls, stretching up to the high ceiling while the floor is covered with grimy dirt. The smell of damp concrete hangs in the stale air with a faint hint of oil. Trusted workers hose down the floor and aim the soapy gray water toward the drains.
The security cameras’ red lights blink rhythmically, but my gaze is on the man zip-tied to the metal folding chair. Rurik cracks his knuckles as he eyes the man hunched over in the chair while Anton stands at attention with his eyes on me. This isolated place is perfect for what we have planned.
I took it easy on Maria. I let her beauty and innocence interfere with my head. I’ve allowed her to play me and given her too much freedom. I want to punish her for keeping secrets, but she’s not here.
This man will pay the price for her. My frustrations will be vented out on him.
He lifts his head slowly until he can look me in the eye. His battered face is swollen, and his skin is bruised from the beating Rurik gave him earlier. Luigi Bianchi is a made man in the Lanzarre Mafia, and Anton caught him snooping in one of our warehouses. When Rurik and I showed up, Anton’s large bulk had the man already pinned facedown to the ground.
Bianchi spits blood onto the floor. “I’m not going to tell you anything, Ivanov.”
“Funny.” I lean into his space, and I can smell his foul sweat. “That’s what they all say right before they break.”
He looks at me, and his gaze is filled with disgust. “I’m not a snitch,” he hisses.
Grinning, I lean closer. “Then let’s put that to the test,” I whisper.
Bianchi has a handsome face-well, had-but I can tell by his cheap suit that his good looks aren’t important to him. I eye the signet rings on his fingers and his manicured nails. Showing off those rings means something to him.
I nod, putting my hands in my pants pocket, and watch Rurik pull a pair of pliers from a canvas work bag. The workers quickly find other things to do at the opposite end of the warehouse as Rurik grabs Bianchi’s thumb. Bianchi’s eyes widen as the tool clamps down, and he jerks against the zip ties, bucking in the chair.
“Fuck you,” he shouts. “You Russian fuck!”
Rurik chuckles and twists the thumb unnaturally-enough to hurt but not enough to do any damage. Yet. “Your nails look pretty, Bianchi. Almost as pretty as my wife’s.” He looks at me and grins. “Do you want to do the honors, pakhan?”
“And deprive you of your fun, Rurik?” I shrug like it bores me. “Continue.”
But Rurik holds the pliers toward me. “It would be rude of me not to share.”
Bianchi starts to curse and shout, but Anton clamps his massive hand over Bianchi’s mouth. He watches intently as I step forward and take the pliers away from Rurik.
Bianchi’s eyes widen in terror as the sweat races down his face. I press the tip of the pliers to Bianchi’s thumbnail and squeeze. Muffled screams echo off the walls as I rip off a nail. Blood pours from the wound, and I toss the mess on the ground. Silently and quickly, a worker appears and washes it away. I reach for the next thumbnail. He tries to fight me, but Anton continues to hold him still. With a smooth, practiced motion, I tear off the remaining thumbnail.
I sneer at his pain. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the whole thumb.”
Anton releases Bianchi’s mouth and steps back. Screams echo throughout the warehouse. I tune the sound out as I stare down at him, imagining his corpse outside, floating in the waters of Newark.
“Where is Zakhar?”
My question is met with a glare, so I press the pliers to the next nail and wait.
He instantly hisses in pain. “Okay, okay,” he shouts, piss staining the front of his pants.
“I’m listening,” I say, releasing the pressure ever so slightly. “And no lying, you petukh.”
He squirms in his restraints, sweat pouring down his face as he struggles to form a coherent sentence. “I don’t know where he is, but I know he came to us and said that he had information to take your whole damn Bratva down.”
“Didn’t I just tell you to not lie?” I keep my eyes on Bianchi as I turn my head. “Anton, where did you find our guest?”
Anton jerks to attention, his eyes alert as an owl’s. “Outside. Near the road. He was on foot, but he was watching the door.”
“Interesting,” I reply as I turn back to Bianchi. The building has no markings. No sign over the door. The address is listed as an access road. I doubt it even exists on Google Maps. And from the outside, it sure as shit looks abandoned. “How’d you find out about this place, Bianchi?”
“Lucky guess,” he snarls.
“Wrong answer.” I yank on the pliers, ripping out another nail. He shrieks from the pain.
“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with, Ivanov?” Bianchi stares defiantly at me, not yet broken. “Save us both the trouble.”
“How did you find this place?” I ignore him as I move down to another finger. “One more chance. Or would you prefer me to work your thumbs again?”
When he doesn’t respond, I clamp the pliers down on the bloody exposed flesh of his thumb. Bianchi’s screams rise in octaves, but I don’t let go. Not until he’s slumped forward in his seat, panting as tears and sweat mix on his face.
“Talk.” I squat down in front of him and tip his face up.
“Fine …” He spits blood onto the floor, almost hitting my shoe. “Zakhar has been feeding us information about your operations. He told us which warehouses to hit, which routes hurt the most, where the accounts are hidden. Everything!”
I clench my teeth. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“He’ll kill you, Ivanov.” Bianchi looks at me, his eyes narrow with hatred. “He wants your Bratva to disappear as if it never existed.”
“I have his daughter.” I lean over him. “But I’m sure you know that already.”
“He’ll take her back.” Bianchi can’t conceal the stench of fear behind his bravado. “And leave you dead.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“The man at the wedding shower …” I start.
“A fool,” replies Bianchi, tensing up. “He was only supposed to get confirmation that you had her. Nothing else. I gotta hand it to you Russian pricks.” He chuckles darkly. “You’d think Vasily Barinov’s death at a wedding would’ve taught you to stop using outside caterers. We should count our blessings that you’re all so fucking stupid.”
“Yet you’re the one sitting in that chair.” I shrug. “I wonder what that makes you?”
“A messenger,” Bianchi growls. “Zakhar wants his daughter back. If she were returned …”
My teeth clench, and my hand squeezes to shut him up. “She won’t be.”
Bianchi catches his breath when I let go. “Then you’ve dug your own grave, Ivanov. Zakhar will make you beg. Same way your brother did!”
My hand works faster than my brain. I lash out and knock Bianchi and the chair over onto the cement floor. The man groans in pain. I stare down at him, my fists clenched at my sides, ready to hit again. Bianchi will pay for what he just said.