24. Ivan
24
IVAN
An hour later…
T he piece of shit hangs by his wrists, bound to the chair, his head lolling forward. Blood drips from his split lip, staining the floor below him in a pattern I’ve seen a hundred times.
His breathing is erratic, each gasp raspy and shallow. I step forward, lifting his chin with a latex gloved hand, forcing him to look me in the eyes. There's nothing personal here, no malice—just consequence.
“You have had time to think,” I say, my voice low, controlled. “Ready to confess?”
He flinches, the movement almost imperceptible, his swollen eye barely able to open. “Please... I— I didn’t mean to... I just...”
I let go of his chin, watching him slump forward again. The excuses are pointless. They always are. “You didn’t mean to betray me, yet here we are.”
He trembles, his voice hitching as he starts to plead. “Please, Ivan... I have family, people who?—”
“Everyone has someone,” I cut him off. “I’m not interested in your family. I’m interested in why you thought it was wise to lie to me.”
His gaze shifts, panic laced with exhaustion, and he gulps, trying to steady his breathing. “It... it wasn’t meant to be like this. I— I just needed to?—”
“Enough.” I cross my arms, my patience thinning. “You cheated me and for that you would die. But I hear a rumor you’ve been in touch with Jimmy Holland. Where is he?”
The threat lands, his eyes widening as the reality sets in. He chokes out another apology, but I’m already past the point of caring. I’ve given him too much time as it is. “Where is he?” I lean in, voice like ice. “Where is Jimmy?”
He looks away, stubbornness flaring one last time. But I’ve done this before; I know how long it takes for that resolve to shatter. I step forward and send a punch directly into his side, the force of it shaking the chair. He lets out a guttural sound, a mixture of pain and desperation.
“Answer the question,” I say, each word steady, unwavering.
“Please...” He gasps, his voice a thin thread of sound. “I can’t— I don’t...”
“Wrong answer.” I deliver another blow, feeling the crunch of bone beneath my knuckles. He groans, slumping forward, but I pull his face back up to mine.
“Where is he?” My voice is calm, steady, as if we’re discussing something trivial. He looks at me, a glimmer of resistance still there, but I can see the fear creeping in. He knows he won’t last much longer.
Finally, he gasps out a string of words between labored breaths. “An apartment... on 54th and Lennox. Top floor. He... he stays there sometimes. That’s all I know.”
I let go, watching him sag in the chair. The address registers in my mind, each detail slotting into place. He’s given me what I needed. Good. I reach out to embrace him, taking hold of his head in my hands. “You did the right thing,” I say. Then I snap his neck.
Nik steps into the room, his gaze flicking from the corpse to me. He raises a brow, silently asking if I’m done. I nod, feeling nothing as I turn to Nik, no satisfaction, no pity—just the quiet acknowledgment that I’ve handled the situation. It’s all mechanical.
“Take care of that,” I say, dismissing the corpse as if he were nothing more than a piece of paperwork to be filed. I strip off my gloves, watching the blood smear across the surface before I toss them aside.
“Anything else?” Nik asks, stepping forward to start the clan up.
“No,” I reply, voice flat. “I have everything I need.”