15. Dimitri
15
DIMITRI
B y the time I reach the docks where Vik took the man who accosted Evelyn at the wedding, I’ve calmed down a bit. I also feel a little guilty for being so upset with her about the dog. I’m not happy about this new furry addition to our house, and I’m even more annoyed that she didn’t bother to tell me about it. Additionally, I’m pissed that Gus was charmed into keeping it quiet as well, and I have every intention of having a firm talk with him about it when I have the time.
I need to know what’s happening with Evelyn. Nothing should be kept from me, even something as seemingly innocent as her pet. It irks me that anyone in my employ would think that it’s acceptable to not give me the full picture of what’s happening, at all times.
It makes me think I might need to take a firmer hand, to make sure the men working for me understand that my word is final. That I should be respected in all things. That very soon, I won’t be the heir any longer, but their pakhan .
It’s not really the dog that’s making me angry. It’s the lack of respect in not telling me—from her, from Gus, from anyone else keeping things from me. It’s the fact that I came in my bathroom sink last night, on my wedding night, instead of inside my wife. It’s the fact that I slept next to her last night, warm and soft and so fucking tempting, and the space between us might as well have been an ocean for all the good it did me.
I can’t touch her, and I shouldn’t want her, and she’s driving me insane after being married to her for a single day. I’m starting to wonder if, for all my compunctions about being locked to a woman like Nicci in marriage forever, if that might not have been an easier path.
Easier, maybe, but not better. I would have been miserable with Nicci, trapped with a woman who I could barely stand to be around, seeking out secret pleasures elsewhere because I didn’t want to touch her unless I absolutely had to. The problem with Evelyn is the opposite. I like being around her too much for either of our good. Even when she argues with me, when she doesn’t listen, when she infuriates me, I still feel something hollow when she walks away. And I want her so much it fucking hurts. It feels like an itch I won’t ever be able to scratch, a craving I can’t satiate.
All of that adds up to me being frustrated and irritable by the time I reach the docks, eager for someone to take it out on. Which is bad news for the man being kept inside.
Vik is waiting for me by the entrance, leaning back against the cold metal wall. Out here, this close to the water, there’s no real snow, just filthy slush that sloshes against my boots as I walk. I changed clothes before coming out here, into suit trousers and a black button down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the tattoos on my forearms. I want the man inside to know that he’s speaking to someone in charge. That the man who decides his life and death has finally arrived.
“He hasn’t talked,” Vik says, pushing away from the wall. “But we haven’t leaned on him that hard, since you said not to, boss. Figured you were wanting to do the honors yourself.”
“Good.” I’m glad someone listens to me. Vik is unwaveringly loyal, a quality that I’m coming to appreciate more and more. “He’ll talk soon enough.”
When I step inside, the acrid scent of piss hits my nose. The man is sitting in a chair in the back third of the warehouse, a tarp spread out underneath him. Standard procedure, and something I learned long ago—sometimes psychological torture is worse than physical. Since I told Vik not to lean on him too hard yet, the man will have been staring at that tarp since he was dragged here last night, wondering what’s going to be done to him that would necessitate an easy cleanup. Wondering if it’s going to be his body rolled up in it when it’s all over, if that body will be whole or in pieces.
Someone took his suit jacket off. He’s in just his shirt and the poorly tailored trousers he had on at the wedding, his feet bare, his arms zip tied behind him to the back of the chair. I can see where sweat has soaked through the pits of his shirt, despite the cold, and the dried stain on his dark grey trousers that tells me he was scared badly at some point enough to wet himself. From the open toolbox on the nearby table, I can guess that Vik, or one of the men, made a show of setting up for me.
More psychological torment. But in my current mood, I don’t have much patience for mind games. I want to know what this man wanted with Evelyn, beyond just what he told her. I want to know what the Crows are planning when it comes to my fucking wife .
And then, I’m going to stop them.
The man’s head comes up as I walk towards him, his eyes bloodshot. “Looks like the big boss man came to visit,” he says in a sarcastic voice, and I chuckle, walking towards the table to see what Vik’s laid out for me. Pliers in a few sizes, a serrated hunting knife, a small bonesaw, a torch. My usual tools. Vik knows what I like to do, when it comes to getting information.
Although like is maybe the wrong word. I don’t get any great pleasure from torture. Satisfaction in getting answers, maybe. But I’m also a man who believes in doing his own dirty work. I believe that I shouldn’t ask others to do what I’m not willing to do myself. And sometimes, doing it yourself is the best way to make sure it’s done right.
That’s true for paperwork, torture, and any number of other things in life.
I glance at him as I pick up the first of the pairs of pliers, hefting its weight in my palm. “Good. You recognize that I’m the boss. That will save us both some time.” Technically, my father is the boss, but this is an instance where we don’t need to split hairs. For all intents and purposes, I’m the only boss that this man needs to worry about.
Clicking the pliers together, I step closer to him. His gaze flicks to them, and I see the hint of fear in his bloodshot eyes. He wasn’t prepared to face this. Which should make my job easier. “What were you doing at my wedding, speaking to my wife?”
The man swallows hard. “I was told to deliver her a message. I did. That’s all. I wasn’t going to lay a hand on her?—”
“That’s good. Maybe I’ll reconsider removing yours.”
There’s more than a flicker of fear in his eyes now. “I’m just a messenger. Haven’t you heard that saying—don’t shoot the?—”
“Hm.” I click the pliers again, setting them back down and reaching for a larger pair, one that can handle teeth. “I had planned on finishing this off by shooting you. A quick, clean death. But I can consider other means if you prefer.”
“Wait—no. I didn’t mean—” The man’s voice wavers, his eyes widening. “Please. I’m no one. Just a messenger, like I said. My death will mean nothing to them, it?—”
“You looked like you enjoyed delivering your message. You enjoyed looming over my wife, frightening her on her wedding day. Feeling like the big bad gangster. I bet they make you feel small, back in the Crows. The guy sent to deliver a message, knowing there was no way you were getting out of there. You’re right, they don’t care what happens to you. But you were hoping you’d get out. You were hoping you’d get to go back and tell them how well you frightened poor little Evelyn Ashburn. And it made you feel so good , didn’t it, seeing the fear in her eyes?”
“No, I?—”
I grab the pliers and the knife and motion to Vik. “I don’t like liars.”
The man screams as Vik comes forward, writhing in his chair as Vik grabs his mouth and yanks it open. He tries to fight, tries to close his jaws, but I move with purpose, grasping his tongue in the pliers as I lean forward with the serrated knife. “One inch for every lie,” I promise him, and then I cut.
The amount of blood is remarkable. I step back as Vik grabs a rag and shoves it against the man’s tongue, letting him wail for several long seconds before he pulls the bloody fabric away. Blood and saliva spill down the front of the man’s shirt, and I regard him for a long moment before I speak again.
“Who sent you to deliver the message?” I ask calmly. The man splutters, trying to speak with his swollen tongue.
“Can’t…say…”
“There’s a difference between can’t, and won’t.” I tilt my head, wiping the blood off of the hunting knife. The man’s eyes lock onto it with terror. “That sounds like it could be a lie.”
“Alright! Won’t… won’t tell you!” He splutters, and I chuckle.
“You can keep your tongue as is for now, then. But I don’t think you understand what’s going to happen here today. For every bit of information you give me, you get that much closer to a clean death. For everything you withhold, you earn yourself a little bit more pain, before you die anyway. Do you understand? Whatever your boss might do to you for answering my questions, you don’t need to worry about that. Do you understand? Because you won’t be going back to him.”
I can see the struggle in the man’s thoughts. The denial of his impending doom mingled with the fear of whether or not he really believes me. He wants to believe there’s some way out of this still. He wants to believe there’s a chance that he’ll live, and therefore will need to fear retribution.
“The name,” I repeat, clicking the pliers. I see his gaze skitter away from me, and I sigh.
For all that I don’t mind having a target for my anger today, I hadn’t intended on spending my entire morning like this. I take out three of the man’s teeth before he makes it to the anger stage of grief, spitting a bloody glob towards my face when I extract another molar.
“He said he’d give me the woman first if I followed orders,” the man spits out at me in a garbled voice. “Before he let the rest of the crew have her. I didn’t touch her, but it was gonna be so fuckin’ sweet when I?—”
His words cut off into a high-pitched scream as I grab his forefinger in the pliers and twist it, breaking the finger before I cut it off. “Give me the name,” I snap through gritted teeth, before I start to cauterize the stump of his right index finger.
The tarp is wet with blood, piss, and splatters of sweat and saliva before the man finally gives up the name of who sent him. Barca Valenti, a name I know. The worthless son of a disloyal capo who was executed for his treason by the last don of the Italian mafia here in New York. The son survived, and started his own gang of upstart thieves and con men, scum that like to play at organized crime without actually being all that good at it. But Barca thinks he’s owed more than he has, and he has visions of being more powerful than his father was. Of taking revenge not only for his father, but taking the power he thinks he deserves.
“Why is Barca attacking our territory?” I growl, leaning down with one hand braced on the back of the chair. I reach up, pressing the point of the hunting knife into the corner of the man’s mouth. “Don’t tell me you don’t know, or I’ll take another inch of your tongue. What does he hope to gain? We’re not the ones who killed his father.”
“Money,” the man sputters. “He gets more territory, he gets more money, more influence. He’s working his way up.”
I snort. “He’s ‘working his way up’ by attacking the businesses in Yashkov territory?”
The man spits. “He thinks the Bratva are stupid animals. The lowest hanging fruit to start with.”
Anger sears through me at that. “And targeting Evelyn?”
“She was weak. An easy mark. Same reason he had me try to follow her home, to deliver a message then, too. A woman with no one to turn to. But now, you’ve made her a better target.” The man lifts his head with some effort, looking at me through wet eyes. “He’ll want her dead just to prove a point.”
“She has me to turn to.” I grit my teeth, grabbing the man’s hair in one hand, wrenching his head back. “But don’t let me be the one to shoot the messenger.”
With a single jerk of my hand, I drag the hunting knife across his throat, slicing it open. I step back just in time to avoid the gout of blood that pours out, wiping the knife off as I motion for the men at the other side of the warehouse.
“Take care of the body,” I tell them flatly. “And clean up the rest. Vik, come with me.”
I have things to do back at my office, and I want to get to them sooner rather than later. I know Gus can be counted on to keep an eye on Evelyn, but I still feel an itch to get back to her, although I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do once that happens. Take her out to dinner? Order in like we’re a real couple? I’ve never lived with anyone, and I hadn’t let myself think about what it would be like to live with Nicci. I hadn’t planned on bringing her to my penthouse, that’s for sure. I would probably have bought an estate of my own just to have a house big enough to lose her in.
Having Evelyn in my penthouse makes even that huge space feel small. Like there’s not enough room for both of us because my desire for her takes up all the space in between. And I have no fucking idea what to do with someone else in my space. I’m used to sending women right home after I’m done with them, not having them hanging around, living life next to me and bringing their pets over.
I pause at the door of the warehouse, glancing back at the man’s crumpled body. “Have that finger put on ice,” I tell Vik. He shrugs, heading back to relay the order, and I check my phone, half-hoping to see a message from Evelyn. There’s nothing, which shouldn’t disappoint me, but I feel a pang all the same.
Although, considering the way we left things this morning, I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Mr. Yashkov!” A gruff, urgent voice cuts through my thoughts, as the door opens and one of my brigadiers pushes his way into the warehouse, briefly wrinkling his nose at the smell. “I got a call. Your wife’s bodyguard.”
Instantly, I’m on full alert. “What happened?” I snap, and I see the man blanch slightly at the expression on my face.
“Nothing yet. That we know of. But she gave him the slip, and?—”
Mother of fucking God. I don’t hear what else he says, because I’m already striding towards the car, finding Gus’ number with one hand as my vision turns red with fury.
I’m going to find my wife.
And then I’m going to put her fucking bodyguard in the ground.