Chapter 36
DIANGELO
Present
What the fuck just happened here? My head is filled with strategies for tracking down intel on the threat to Terina when I’m suddenly feeling like I walked onto the set of The Bachelor. Not that I watch that shit, but the commercials are hard to escape.
I didn’t realize Ciro knew Terina. Dickhead didn’t say anything when I called and asked him to come by. Now, I’m wishing I’d asked someone else. Anyone else.
I slam the door shut, startling the two out of their hug. “Come on in,” I say dryly. “Sounds like introductions aren’t necessary.”
“Yeah.” Ciro grins. “Rina and I went to high school together.”
“He was a year ahead of me but was sweet enough to take me to senior prom even though he’d graduated.
” She’s radiating happiness as she tells me this asshole probably took her virginity, and all I can do is listen as she continues.
“Dad was super protective and told me the only way I could go was if it was with someone he trusted.”
“You say that like it was a hardship,” Ciro says. “We had a great time that night.” He dips his chin conspiratorially, and she giggles.
Jesus Christ, I’m going to break this fucker’s neck.
“Yeah, well, a lot’s changed since then.” My harsh words are a bucket of black on their rainbow reunion.
Ciro looks at me for a second, trying to read the situation. “That’s true.” He looks back at Terina. “I hear you’ve attracted a bit of trouble recently.”
“Eh, it comes with the life, right?”
“Suppose so. I’m just glad I can help out.” He puts his arm around her, tugging her into his side in yet another hug.
That’s it. I gotta get out of here before I do something I’ll regret.
“I need to go,” I blurt, sounding like a surly ass. “No one steps foot in or out of this place. Call me immediately if there are any problems.” I grab my wallet and bolt.
I’m so fucking irritated that I punch the metal wall of the elevator with my bare fist. Pain radiates up my arm, but not in a bad way. I didn’t break anything. I’m too experienced a fighter for that. It was just enough to get my goddamn head cleared.
Shit. That’s twice now I’ve lost my cool in a week.
I shake out my hand, flexing my fingers as I remind myself I’m supposed to be a professional. My relationship with Terina should be purely professional. None of the shit that just happened should matter.
You can say “supposed to” and “should” all you want—it doesn’t change how you feel.
The elevator doors open before I can dent another wall panel. Good for my wallet, since I’ll get stuck paying for the damage, but it’s an ominous start to my mission.
Here’s hoping I don’t launch a war while I’m out.
“A gift.” I set the bottle of vodka on one of the wooden crates stacked on the pier.
“Never arrive empty-handed when you want something.” The old man across from me hardly spares me a glance as he uses a dirty switchblade to cut a slice of apple. His voice is as rough as the weathered boards below our feet and heavily feathered with a Russian accent.
“It’s a good rule to live by. I was taught well.”
His eyes, silver as the fish in his nets, peer up at me. “You going to suck my cock while you kiss my ass?”
My old friend draws a reluctant chuckle from deep in my chest as I take a seat. “Good to see you, too, Grisha. I can always count on you to keep me humble.”
Humble and alive. He took me under his wing those two years in prison and taught me to fight and to listen. He’s the reason I made it out without severe emotional and physical trauma.
A grin breaks out on his face, unleashing a yellow, crooked smile. “Hand me those glasses, and we’ll drink to humility.”
I do as he suggests. Pushing him for information before he’s ready will only result in frustration, so I allow him to take the lead. We go through three rounds of drinks while catching up before he brings us back to the purpose of my visit.
“I suppose we should talk business before you end up passed out on my pier.” He takes a long draw from his cigarette, mirth in his eyes.
“I won’t pretend to be your equal where vodka is concerned, so that would be appreciated.” I’m a big guy and can handle my liquor, but Grisha breathes vodka. The fact that he’s still alive is a medical miracle.
“Someone sent a nasty snake to my boss’s sister,” I tell him.
Another long puff of a cigarette. “Not very friendly.”
“No, it’s not. Simeon has denied his involvement.”
He nods thoughtfully. Even if he knows who I’m after, he wouldn’t give anything away until he decides to do it.
Grisha isn’t part of the New York Russians.
He goes back to the old country—did time in a Russian gulag and swears his loyalty to no man these days.
Decades ago, Biba insisted Grisha either swear an oath to him or label himself an enemy.
Grisha refused to do either. Every attempt to kill him failed until Biba finally gave up.
The two maintained an uneasy truce thereafter.
Despite being independent, Grisha has his finger on the pulse of the Russian community. Biba’s family doesn’t take a piss without Grisha knowing.
“The Reaper has also denied his involvement,” I continue.
As expected, this draws a reaction from the old man. The ever-so-slight lift of his chin is the equivalent of any other man dropping the F-bomb.
“I’ve been very interested in this Reaper man,” he admits. “They say he’s quite skilled with a karambit blade, those who survive.”
“I’ve heard the same. You’re not the only one seeking information on him.” I wait, emphasizing that I have intel he wants because I know Grisha. I arrived with a gift, but I know better than to expect a free handout.
Finally, a sly smile splits his face. “I did teach you well.”
“You did.”
“Well, go on, then.”
“He sent a message via an arrow, shot into the wood siding of a house. It had a note wrapped around the shaft, sealed with wax.”
“Interesting,” he muses slowly, eyes unfocused on the horizon.
“We don’t have a reason to trust him, or Simeon, for that matter. But with Pasha being edged out of power, he’s looking like the most likely culprit. I imagine he blames us for his ouster.”
“I can’t tell you what’s in a man’s head.”
“No, but you could help me find him.”
Again, he studies me. “There’s someone you haven’t mentioned.”
Every muscle in my body tenses as I rack my mind for who I could have forgotten about.
“Misha Savin,” he continues. “He’s known by you Italians as Michael—cozied himself up to the Lucciano family.”
“What about him?”
“He rose in the ranks over the years. Biba favored him almost as much as his sons. Some thought he might inherit the whole organization.”
I’m stunned. I had no idea another player was so involved. “Where is he now?”
He gives a slight shrug, palms up. “No one knows. He disappeared the day Biba died.”
Holy shit.
My brain races to catch up and figure out how this information might change things.
“Simeon?” I ask, wondering if he could have taken out the man he saw as a rival.
“No, he was a mess when it happened. Never could have moved so quickly to take out a rival.”
I know Michael wasn’t responsible for Biba’s death, but I won’t breathe a word of that to Grisha. Some things are too dangerous to share. Michael ran, but why? Fear of Simeon coming after him? Could Michael lead me to Pasha? Would the two be together?
“You think I’m better off chasing Michael than Pasha?”
“Who’s to say? But if you wanted to think on it over a good drink, you could visit The Half-Mast. I hear it’s good for people watching.”
Bingo.
“I always enjoy a bar with a good atmosphere.” I extend my hand. “It’s good to see you, my friend. Our talks are always greatly appreciated.”
He shakes my hand, making note of the recent blood on my knuckles, and chuckles to himself. “Always a pleasure, Moy mal'chik. Always a pleasure.”
I decide to stop at Terina’s apartment on the way to The Half-Mast to check on things again and get her mail.
The first thing I notice is that the security system isn’t armed when I enter.
While nothing seems immediately amiss, a lingering odor draws me farther into the apartment.
Gun drawn, I enter her bedroom and have to fight back the urge to gag at the stench.
Set in the center of her bed as if on display is the rotting remains of what appears to be a heart—animal or human, I have no idea—with a large knife through the center stabbed into the bed.
The words “eye for an eye” are written in dried blood on the wall.
The scene is grotesque and unsettling, even for me. I can’t imagine how horrified Terina would have been if she’d seen this. I’m so fucking grateful she’s not here.
I’m grateful and enraged.
But this sort of anger isn’t explosive. This is the sort of deep-rooted fury that goes white-hot and silent like magma ready to pour down a mountain and annihilate an entire city with slow and steady totality.
No survivors.
No mercy.
The thing that bothers me most is knowing whoever came here knew Terina wasn’t here. They came prepared to stage this scene with the intent to terrorize an innocent woman. They’re playing with us, and I hate games.
This motherfucker’s days are numbered.
I make a couple of calls to get cleaners sent up—the professional kind who handle this sort of stuff under the radar—and let Renzo know what I’ve found.
While I wait for the crew to arrive, I scour the hallway security footage from the cameras I installed.
I didn’t use motion sensors because they can malfunction, which means I'll have to go through hundreds of hours of footage.
I haven’t spotted the perpetrator entering by the time the crew arrives, so I put that on the back burner to continue once I return home.
Once I’m comfortable leaving, I set out late afternoon for the dive bar known as The Half-Mast. It’s located in the outskirts of Little Odessa in Brooklyn, which houses the largest concentration of Russian immigrants.
The bar is a locals-only joint. Not that tourists wouldn’t be allowed, but it’s doubtful any would walk through the door voluntarily.
The exterior isn’t exactly inviting, with its unlit metal sign bolted to the orange brick building and its blacked-out windows revealing nothing about what goes on within.
The interior is an eclectic mix of tarnished old-world relics and smoke-stained modern conveniences.
It suits the handful of individuals currently patronizing the establishment like a worn leather recliner molded to its owner’s body after decades of use.
They’re a hardened, rugged lot who don’t look at all pleased with my appearance.
Zero fucks given, I make my way to the bar and order Grisha’s favorite vodka because it’s a niche make that might gain me a tiny bit of goodwill.
“You new to the area?” the bartender asks, paying particular attention to the tattoos on my arms. The Russian underworld uses tattoos more than the rest of us to signal status and allegiance. He’s likely looking to discern whether I’ve been sent by a rival from out of town.
I down the shot and motion for another. “Not exactly.”
The heavyset man, about ten years older than me, refills my glass rather than dirtying a clean one. “Maybe you’re not new to the city, but you’re new here.”
“I am.” Keeping my eyes on him until the last moment, I down the second shot. “I’m looking for a man named Misha Savin. Ever heard of him?”
No reaction. He doesn’t even blink. And the rest of the room seems to have gone noticeably silent as well.
Excellent.
I’ve come to the right place.
The man takes the vodka bottle and sets it on a shelf below the counter out of sight. It seems the bar has closed where I’m concerned.
“You’re brave to walk in here asking questions,” he says with an amused tilt to his head and steel in his eyes.
The scrape of chairs sounds behind me.
I’ve found over the years that men seem to find my size a personal challenge, as though by merely being tall and built that I have insulted their masculinity.
People fucking love to fight me. Most of the time, it’s a pain in my ass.
Today, it’s a welcome relief. I have a shit ton of tension I’d love to work off while rearranging some faces.
I stretch my neck from one side to the other, then turn to face my opposition.
The two men flanking me don’t even give me a chance to fully turn before one throws a punch.
The only problem is, my arm is already in motion to block.
I deflect his strike and nail him with one of my own.
As he flails backward, his buddy tosses a punch with a roar, but he’s not positioned well to get any real heat behind the strike.
My head pops to the side briefly before returning my pissed-off attention to him. His eyes widen and nostrils flare.
That’s right, asshole. You’re in over your head.
Both are young and smaller than me. They probably thought they had the advantage since it’s two-to-one. They were mistaken.
I backhand the shit stain with my fist, sending him crashing to the wooden floor, where he stays motionless.
The first guy is a better fighter, and now that he’s recovered from my right hook, he’s snarling for more.
“Fuckin’ mutant, need to be put out of your misery.”
I huff wryly. “That the best you can do?” That’s when I notice one of the men still seated at a table glance over my shoulder.
I move to duck and swerve, but I’m not quite fast enough to avoid a glancing blow from the bottle the bartender uses to swing at my head.
It hurts like a motherfucker, but at least I’m still conscious.
Conscious and pissed.
I kick my leg out behind me into the young guy’s gut, sending him flying into a table, then deck the bartender with a right-left combination. While he’s reeling, I slam the other guy’s head into a post and let his body collapse to the floor alongside his friend’s.
When I go back to the bartender, he tries to scurry away but is too dazed to be effective. I yank him close with my hand fisted in his shirt and sneer.
“You see Misha, tell him the Morettis want to talk.”
He nods rapidly.
Message received. It’s time for me to go, anyway. Every second I waste here is a second Ciro and Terina are spending laughing it up in the land of fond memories.
I shove him away from me and walk out, pleased at a nice day’s work.