Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
NIKO
“I ’m turning into a fucking sap,” I growl at Darian as we head into the warehouse I’m spending far too much time in recently.
At least the svolota held here today is apparently high enough up the food chain that he might have some answers - well, according to the last man we ‘chatted’ to, anyway.
Of course, that brings with it a whole slew of other problems. You can’t just kill men above a certain rank without repercussions, not even those in a ramshackle organization like the Bulgarian Mutri , so we need to take extra precautions and come up with an inventive way to do away with him, which doesn’t arouse suspicion.
Well, not the kind that casts the spotlight on us, at least.
“Caring for your wife is not a weakness,” Darian growls, his eyes a stormy grey. Why the hell is he scowling at me like that?
“Like you’d know,” I volley back at him, aiming a subtly veiled dig at his sexuality since I’m uncomfortable with this conversation on too many levels.
It’s always the easiest way to shut him down since it’s something we never, ever talk about.
But if he wants to air my shit, then he should expect retaliation.
Darian's jaw clenches along with his fists, but he says nothing as we approach the metal doors. The silence between us is thick, and now not all the tension is because of the weight of information we need our hostage to divulge. But at least he’ll provide us with a handy outlet for our frustrations.
I push my thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. We have a job to do.
The heavy door creaks open, revealing our captive slumped in a chair, his face a mess of bruises and dried blood, even so I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t recognize him even if it wasn’t. There are too many strangers with dubiously clean backgrounds popping up for my liking.
The stench of sweat and fear fills my nostrils. Good. My men have him primed for talking. "Rise and shine, svolota, " I snarl, throwing a cold bucket of piss over him, then circling him like the predator I am as he coughs and splutters. "Ready to tell us what we want to know?"
Damn that stinks. Maybe I should have stuck to water.
He lifts his head, one eye swollen shut. "Vaffanculo," he spits.
Italian, interesting. My intel told me he was Bulgarian, and since the Mutri aren’t known for welcoming outsiders, that’s what I’d expected. It’s also worrying on several levels, because… where does this mudak fit in?
I hope he’s at least one of the dead Viper’s discards rather than one of Mika’s trusted soldiers. I don’t want to risk a war until I know exactly what we’re dealing with.
Pushing my unease aside, I allow a smirk to tug at my lips. "Wrong answer."
At my nod, Darian steps forward with a wicked gleam in his eye. As we get to work, I try to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of interrogation. But thoughts of Lyah keep intruding, her soft curves and gentle touch a stark contrast to the violence before me.
Disgusted with myself, I channel that frustration into each blow, each threat.
By the time I’ve gouged his eye out with a hot iron poker, cracked his front teeth loose and popped a shoulder clean out of its socket, I’m nearly bored. The man shrieks, writhes, then sags against the bloodied restraints, his breath coming in quick, pitiful gasps.
Darian takes point as I consider what the asshole has said so far. He knows more, I can tell. It’s a gift.
And Darian’s gift is that he’s thorough with implements, never missing an opportunity to cause maximum damage with minimum blood loss. It’s art, in its way—a kind of violence that requires finesse and patience.
I watch, arms crossed, until the man's breathing syncs to a wet, clicking rhythm and his good eye rolls in its socket like a cornered rat’s.
He spits again - blood and phlegm, and possibly the fragment of a tooth - at Darian’s shoes, and Darian responds by snapping his pinky finger back until bone pierces skin and it sticks up like a bloody flag.
The captive howls, cuts it short, and glares at me, which is the bravest thing he’s managed so far.
I lean close so he can see the contempt in my face.
"You can keep up the tough guy act, but we both know you’re finished.
" My words hiss between his ragged breaths.
“This isn't about you. It never was. But you can choose how much more pain you want before you talk. And you will talk before you die.”
“Fuck you!” he grunts, causing me to sigh internally. Time to break out the big guns.
I nod to Darian who walks outside and returns, guiding a silently sobbing, blindfolded woman by one of her bound arms and depositing her next to me before he turns to leave again.
The guy in the chair gurgles out a wet, evil laugh. “Do what you like to her,” he wheezes. “She’s a useless, frigid bitch who could use softening up a bit.”
I look from the bastard to his frail, trembling wife who whimpers pathetically and shows signs of more than one recent beating. She's young, and despite being so cowed and battered, I can tell she’s barely out of her teens, maybe half his age. She’ll be better off without him.
Looking at him in disgust, I play my ace. “My men followed you home,” I tell him, allowing him to draw his own conclusions. Other than your wife, who else do you think they found there?” I ask, as if I’m making idle conversation, and his single eye widens as he joins the dots.
Beside me the girl makes a low, mournful sound which almost pierces my stone-cold heart. Fuck I’m going soft. I won’t hurt either her or her child, but she doesn’t know that. And more importantly, neither does her no-good excuse for a husband.
“Take the girl to my vehicle,” I tell Darian, allowing everyone to think I’ll use her for my pleasure later on. She doesn’t need to be traumatized by my empty threats, although it would surprise them all to know I’ve never been unfaithful to Emylyah. Probably even my brother.
Picking up a razor-sharp pair of secateurs, I stroll leisurely over to the asshole in the chair and snip off his broken pinkie with pathetic ease. “Handsome looking son you have.”
It’s an assumption. The child isn’t really here.
While I don’t need a distraught kid distracting me, I would never stoop to that level of debasement.
But surely all parents think their kids are the best. Although, this svolota might be an exception judging by the way he treats his wife.
I’m gambling on the fact the kid’s a boy, and men like this mudak always prize their heirs.
I don’t say a word as I walk back over to Darian and allow the guy to stew. It’s strange how silence is often more effective, encouraging people to fill it, rather than co-exist with the weight of soundlessness haunting their thoughts.
In mere seconds the man is a blubbering mess, spilling every secret he knows.
Kids… like I’ve always said, they’re a weakness.
“The insurrection didn’t die with Vito Rossi,” the scumbag admits. “It was always bigger than him, but the stupid bastard believed he was in control, even when he was being manipulated.”
“So, the Cosa Nostra,” I speculate, surprisingly disappointed with the confirmation, and angry at myself for mistaking Mika Rossi as an ally.
I’ve always prided myself on my judgement.
The disclosure sends a wave of fury thundering through me.
Yeah, definitely going fucking soft. That shit needs to end. Now.
“Well, well… never thought young Mika Rossi had it in him,” I muse, as if I haven’t been blindsided by the information.
Another wet laugh follows my words, then a gurgling cough before more blood gets spat on the floor. “That little faggot couldn’t organize something like this if his life depended on it,” our captive splutters, suddenly chatty. “You have far bigger problems on your hands than that runt.”
I don’t dwell on the relief. Truth is, I like Mika, and he’s a much better ally than an enemy.
But he’s new-age mafia; the heir to the Italian throne, and not quite in control yet.
Unlike us, and the Irish, where a new generation have already taken charge, La Cosa Nostra is still ruled by the old guard.
Is that what this is? Dissent within the ranks?
Or was the Viper in bed with the Columbians? I’ve heard rumors of an unholy alliance there, too.
“Tell me about them,” I demand, my expression granite as I feel us getting closer to the crux of the matter.
The man laughs hysterically, like he’s in on some big joke. “You’re all fucked,” he spits with as much glee as a man about to lose his life can have. “You, the Irish, and Mika Rossi’s pansy-ass.”
That’s the second time he’s insinuated the heir to the Cosa Nostra is gay. I don’t know if it’s true, but the attitude of men like this is the reason my brother has such a chip on his shoulder… I can hear him growling under his breath behind me.
“The Viper wanted to go back to the old order.”
There’s nothing new there. Everyone knows Vito Rossi was plotting behind Mika’s back to take things back to the old ways. The flesh trade in particular, which those of us more forward thinking are stepping away from.
“The Viper’s dead. Whatever he wanted is obsolete.”
A sly look comes into his eye. “But the Viper was never in it alone. He had help. Outside help.”
He thinks he’s got one up on me, but it’s not hard to put two and two together. “From Red Scorpion,” I declare, stealing his thunder. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
His mouth falls open, but as cool as I’m playing it, he’s confirmed my deepest fears. “So, someone has decided to bring an ancient name back from the dead.” I play it off like I’m bored. Like it means nothing. “But without backing, it’s just a name.”
“It’s more than just a name,” he spits, a flush rising on his battered face. Hit a nerve there.