Chapter 15
DANTE
Romi thinks I haven’t noticed her following me, which I find adorable. I’ve been so busy with work these last few days that we’ve barely crossed paths—until now, when the little rabbit has dared to follow me into a hole.
Finally, we got a tip about one of The Lion's remaining followers who went into hiding after his death. One of our business partners was approached by this man to conduct business with him, but he smartly remained loyal to the Armanis.
It would appear that after The Lion's death, this guy has started a small side hustle of independently dealing weapons—a big fucking no-no on our turf—instead of returning to Russia.
It brings me great satisfaction to find the culprit.
The last guy we caught, Tyson shot dead before we could get any answers from him, so this is a wonderful change of direction.
Even with the long hoodie and her face covered, I’d recognize those thick boots and legs in a room full of people. I could catch her now and have her fess up to this little ruse, but I’m flattered that she’s interested in me, though she won’t care to admit it.
The closer she gets, the more she might come to regret it, but it’s not like I dragged her to this restaurant. So, I go about my business, walking inside where it smells like cigarettes, and immediately identify the man sitting at the bar. I take the seat beside him.
“What the fuck, pal? There are literally so many other chairs here. Fuck off,” the guy says.
In my periphery, I see Romi take a seat at the end of the bar, taking glances at me through thick eyelashes.
I ignore the man as the bartender asks me what I’d like to drink.
“Two tequilas, please. One for me and one for the pretty little lady at the end of the bar. But give it fifteen minutes.”
The bartender looks at me strangely but nods as I hand him a fifty-dollar bill, and then I turn to the man beside me. He’s red in the face after being ignored.
“Did you not hear me the first time?” he bites out in a Scottish accent.
I offer a charismatic smile. “I’m going to make this very quick. You remained loyal to the Armanis, which is the only smart thing you’ve done thus far. Give me the name of the man who approached you, and you walk away alive.”
His eyes widen, and his gaze finally dips to the inside of my leather jacket, where the handle of my gun pokes out.
I’m not a fan of guns. Although I know how to use them and am a decent shot, I get far more pleasure from cutting open my victims little by little.
But I realize it’s not the gun that's caught his attention; it’s my leather pouch.
“You’re The Doc, aren’t you?” He goes a shade paler as he licks his lips and looks at his drink. “I was told one of Mr. Armani's men would visit me, but I didn’t think it’d be you.”
“What gave me away? My ridiculous good looks?”
The man seems stunned by the rhetorical question and licks his lips again, unsure how to answer.
“Rumor has it, The Doc’s in town, working for Luca Armani.
A charismatic chap with a dimple when he smiles, but death promised in his gaze.
It’s said he carries around a leather pouch with scalpels, and he uses them to dissect anyone who crosses him. ”
“I’m flattered my reputation precedes me.”
He worriedly side-eyes me. “I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.
So as long as you promise my name won’t be mentioned, I’ll give you the fella you’re looking for.
” The man points his grubby finger to a door behind the bar.
“The head chef. His name is Pavel Smirnov. He was the one who approached me.”
I charm a smile. “See, making friends isn’t that difficult. Thank you for your assistance,” I say as I hand over an envelope of cash. Although I find torturing much more fun than paying someone off, this was the quickest way, especially when I can possibly use this asshole in the future.
“And a tequila shot for my friend here too,” I say to the bartender as I clasp a hand on the man’s shoulder and then round the bar toward the kitchen. When I glance at Romi, she drops her head, pulling down the hoodie.
Absolutely adorable.
A man barges past me in a white apron but says nothing as he pulls out a cigarette, the door he came out of swinging.
I instinctively know it’s not the man I'm after. Then I see the chef, a hulking man with tattoos skating up his arms. He definitely looks like the type to be sticking his nose into business that doesn’t concern him.
Rage music is playing, and it excites me, because it’ll muffle his screams.
I lean against the back wall of the kitchen, waiting for him to turn around and notice me; he’s cutting raw chicken on a counter.
When I get bored waiting, I say, “Hello,” and he spins around, raising the blade in my direction. Oh boy, this is going to be fun.
“I heard you’ve been dealing in weapons. Turns out my boss doesn’t like that, and I’m here to put a stop to it. I am curious, however, as to who else is working with you.” Those who purchase weapons from anyone besides the Armani’s within the boundaries of their territory are as good as traitors.
The man actually has the audacity to laugh, his fat belly jiggling under his white apron.
“And they sent a pipsqueak like you?” he scoffs.
My eyes narrow. I’ve been called a lot of things, but pipsqueak is new. If this moron, whose eyes are dilated—from drugs or fear or excitement—could read a room, he’d know that it's very unfortunate to be caged with a predator.
A burger patty sizzles on the grill beside him, and I make a note of the spatula that rests nearby.
“I ain’t telling you shit,” he says, baring his teeth. “And fuck the Armanis.”
Today, he chose violence.
Goody.
He leaps for me, knife first, and I dodge it, happily grabbing the first pan I find and smash it over his head.
He keels over with the force, slicing the knife through the air as he tries to get his bearings.
I kick him in the stomach, forcing him back, as his hand slides through the raw chicken, and I throw a plate at his face.
It shatters, porcelain pieces splintering all over the room.
My smile widens as I grab his hand and slam it onto the grill.
He screams, trying to bring the knife down on me, but I elbow his forearm, knocking the blade out of his grip.
Then I grab the spatula and, using its edge, sever his finger.
He howls, the sound more poetic to me than the rage music that’s currently playing.
Blood pools onto the floor as I twist his arm awkwardly behind his back and shove his face down so it hovers just inches over the surface of the grill. He’s screaming, begging me to stop. But the truth is, I never want to stop. I only remember sometimes that I have to.
“Give me the answers I’ve come for, and we can make this easier. Give me the names of your clients. And I’m especially interested in whether you have a new boss.”
“Fyodor Novikov! His name's Fyodor Novikov!” he screams. Oh, that was much easier than I thought it would be.
It appears we have a new adversary in our territory.
I internally grimace, dissatisfied by the whimpering mess of a man. Why is it that the bigger they are, the quicker these crybabies crumble?
However, at the very least, I'm getting what I came here for.
“Where can I find him?” I ask, pushing his face into the grill. He screams, and I scrunch my nose up at the smell of burning flesh. I lift his face, and he’s whimpering hysterically.
“I don’t know much more. After The Lion was killed, a few of us regrouped, and Novikov took charge. I don’t know any more. I swear. I don’t even know what he looks like. He only ever gives orders over the phone.”
“And you listen?” I scoff. But I'm very interested in this lead.
“H-he’s s-smart,” the oaf blubbers. “When I told him I wasn’t listening to a coward who hides behind a phone, he suggested I look in my bedroom, and there was a bomb with a timer under my bed.
I panicked. It’s how he got the others to work for him, too.
Most of my deals are with him. I barely have time to deal with anyone else.
” Except the old man sitting at the bar, I think. But he’s not my focus anymore.
“I want a list of those who work for him.”
“You’ve been killing the last of us!” Saliva flies from his lips, and snot runs out of his nose as he holds in a pained sob.
“I swear I don’t know who he is or how to find him.
I just acquire the weapons, and a hooded guy meets me behind the Trail Blaze restaurant on the last day of every month.
We exchange goods and cash. I overheard him on the phone once with Fyodor, and the only thing I could make out from Fyodor's end of the call was when he mentioned he had a shift at a bar. So I’m assuming he uses it as a front. But that’s all I know. I swear!”
Interesting. So this oaf is only a lead to a bigger fish, which is exciting. And it piques my curiosity as to how useful this oaf is to me now.
“Those you approach for business… is it all on his behalf now?” I threaten to put his cheek back against the grill, prompting a quick response as he whimpers, sweat dripping off his forehead and sizzling on the grill beside the chargrilled burger.
“Yes. I stopped working independently the moment I was forced to work for him. Please, you have to believe me!”
I sigh, now growing bored with this man. There’s nothing else I can gain from him. He’s already a dead man, so I might as well send this Fyodor Novikov a message. Because if I don’t do it, then his master certainly will. It’s just the world we live in.
I pull my scalpel out, sliding it across his throat with ease, enjoying the rage music playing in the background. His blood sprays against the burnt patty and the white tiling on the floor. I walk over to the sink, wash my hands clean, and then pull out my phone and text Izak.
Me: Ctrl Alt Delete.
His reply is almost immediate.
Izak: Just say ‘delete the footage’ like a normal fucking person.
I smirk as I call Luca, who answers on the first ring.
“Fyodor Novikov,” I begin, then relay all the information I just learned.
“It’s a lead, at the very least. Find him,” Luca demands before hanging up.
I message the hounds with the same information. My blood pumps with excitement for the hunt to come. However, everything in due time. I have another pressing matter to attend to.
I pocket my phone and stride back into the bar area. Romi peeks over curiously, and the moment she spots me, she quickly hides beneath the hoodie again.
With perfect timing, the bartender brings out two tequila shots and places them in front of her. Her eyebrows furrow, and I hook an arm over her shoulder.
“Hello, Cattivella,” I purr into her ear. “I like it when a woman dresses up for me. I’m even more elated that you’ve been stalking me.”
She shiftily looks out from under her hoodie, and her surprise at me finding her out is adorable. “Let’s have a shot before we have a little chat, shall we?” I encourage her to take the shot.
It’s strange that she doesn’t seem frightened. If anything, she appears to be irritated because I caught her. I follow her gaze to my shirt.
“You have blood on you again,” she notes.
I offer a wicked grin as I clink my shot glass against hers.
“Perhaps I’m messier than I realize,” I say as she meets my eyes with a glare and then throws back her own shot.
Good girl.