Chapter Eighteen
In which ribeyes are not the only thing getting carved at Gordi’s Sandwich Paradise.
Andrey…
Gordi's Sandwich Paradise has always been a neighborhood favorite.
It's an old-fashioned style diner with black and white checkered floors and a meat counter for high-end purchases. Employees from Bellevue Hospital around the corner come here to get a break from the blood and guts to eat their meatball sandwich in peace. Other customers stop by at the end of their workday to pick up a couple of magnificent ribeye’s, or some imported sausage.
Gordi is a big, friendly guy with an enormous mustache and the sharpest set of cleavers on the Eastern Seaboard.
Right now I'm holding one, hefting it, feeling the weight as I stand in the second area of his basement.
The one the health inspectors know nothing about, nor do they want to.
It's dank and terrifying with a lingering stench of blood and Clorox that never really goes away.
My brother is here too, waiting for a show.
I tilt my head toward the bored Nikandr, who is lounging against a steel-topped table loaded with equipment.
"My brother here is very fond of drills.
Admittedly, they do the job." I walk in a slow circle around the man chained to a chair that's bolted into the cement over a drain.
It's the feature every hostage sees first. This worm is sobbing and we haven't touched him yet.
"Is he crying already?" Nik says with disappointment. "He was acting all tough when he was harassing college kids for information."
"Yes, these low-level gossip fucks live off whatever bonus they can get for exposing someone's private misery.
Isn't that right, Ramon?" I slap him hard across the mouth.
"Digging up illegitimate children, crippling debt, perhaps a family member consumed by drugs and alcohol.
You love dragging them down, don't you?"
Watery eyes look up at me and he shakes his head rapidly. "No! No, I swear, Mr. Morozov, that's not what this is at all!" The rest of his feeble denial is cut off as I punch him three times, hard, in the ribs. I can hear them snap under the impact of my knuckles.
"You're wasting my time," I say irritably, checking my watch. "It also appears that I'm going to have to throw away this Tom Ford suit, because you just pissed yourself." I step back as the yellow stream heads towards the drain under his chair.
Nikandr picks up one of his drills and turns it on, idly pulling the trigger. The high whine pulls another shriek out of Ramon: Reporter/Private Investigator, according to his grubby business card. "As investigators go, you're actually not bad, Ramon. Middle tier at best."
Strolling over to Nikandr, I continue. "He's the kind that if someone dangles enough money, he'll make damn sure he's got something shitty to send back. Right, Ramon?"
The blood from his split lip is staining his white T-shirt, and his sobs have turned into shudders. He's silent, too terrified to say anything.
"Did I mention, Ramon, that you're wasting my fucking time and I have things to do?"
"Oh yeah," Nik says cheerfully. "That thing tonight."
I narrow my eyes as he grins at me. He's speaking, of course, about the wedding party that every woman in our family insisted on throwing for Iris and me.
"We must admit, though, that there's nothing that puts us in a better mood than drilling out the kneecaps of someone who truly deserves it," I muse.
Ramon's body is stiffening, his bloody face looking up with teary eyes.
"No, it wasn't me! It wasn't me. I told them this was a terrible plan!
But she c- could contact one of her friends here in Manhattan, she could get my brother out of jail with one signature!
With one phone call!" He wails, rocking back-and-forth in his desperation.
Just before I put my hands on my hips, I remember my knuckles are bloody. This suit is never going to get clean. "Who is she, Ramon?" I ask, leaning closer until I can see my reflection in his terrified brown eyes.
"I can't. I didn't mean to say she, it was –"
Reaching up with both hands, I slam them down on his ears.
I can almost feel the moment when his eardrums burst. His agonized howl is very satisfying.
"You were following my sister-in-law, Rose.
You were trying to talk to her friends, including the poor girl that you nearly roofied before you were caught. "
"Oh, fuck. Let me take out an eye," Nik says. "I'll leave you the other one so he can see what you're going to do to him."
"Talking to your buddies in the court records division," I continue.
"Trying to get details about our marriage, whether it was legitimate.
" I'm looking through the report Kolya sent on my phone.
"What is truly disappointing is that you hacked into Violet Morozova's accounts for her two teen shelters.
Digging through the center's financial records, violating the children's right to confidentiality.
"This is a fairly thorough search, Ramon and it's certainly not done for someone in pursuit of truth and justice.
This is a reputation crusher. Not enough evidence for jail time, just enough to turn the court of public opinion.
You really didn't think we'd catch up with you? " I click my tongue disapprovingly.
Even Nik and Trofim shake their heads in disappointment.
"If you don't tell me who hired you, right now, I'll just pull up the court records and find your brother…
ah, there he is." I scroll rapidly through the information on my screen.
"Hmm, he's only got a three-to-five-year sentence, out in two with good behavior.
I can't tell you how easy it is to alter conviction records and make that a life sentence for your brother.
Really, it's just a couple of file shifts. " My finger hovers over my phone.
"Please!" he screeches. "Elana Carrington. She said the weak link was going to be your wife, to- to push until I found something. She was sure there was something about a kidnapping, that your wife is the only weakness you've ever shown. That- that she would be easy to tarnish!"
Leaning against the table with Nikandr, one finger tapping idly on the steel top, I say, "He's still holding out."
"You gotta believe me!" Ramon wails.
"Oh, please,” Nikandr sighs. "The last thing we would ever do is believe a piece of shit like you."
"How much did she pay you to go after my wife?" I ask.
"A h- hundred thousand now, five hundred thousand when I was done and getting my brother released." Ramon says anxiously. The wet stain on his jeans just got bigger.
"So, what are we thinking?" Nik asks, occasionally pushing the button on the drill, making it spin. It has a long, wicked-looking drill bit; a two-pronged blade finish. "Do we make an example of him? Send his head back in a box to Carrington's summer house in the Hamptons?"
Trofim smiles, as if he's recalling a beloved memory. "Yeah, Roman loves that trick."
I pick up the cleaver I'd been playing with earlier. It's extraordinarily sharp. Gordi uses it for cutting through bone and sinew when he's carving out sides of beef. The low light in the cell flashes along the shimmering silver edge.
"Elana could have gone after me," I muse. "Even our family. Instead…" I walk back to Ramon, who's shuddering. "You were going to hurt my wife, my Iris. It's so easy, isn't it? Targeting the sweet ones."
It's quiet in the cell, other than his pathetic sniffles. Nikandr and Trofim watch me silently, suddenly alert.
Holding the cleaver up, I let Ramon see his terrified face in the steel's reflection.
"You fucking dared to go after my wife." My arm goes up in an arc, slashing down, savagely cutting into his throat, his scream cuts off as the blade slices through his vocal cords.
I step back and take another angle, coming in horizontally.
"No one targets my malen'kiy tsvetok." The third strike with the cleaver sends up a spray of blood, I can feel it hitting my skin.
With a final crack of his battered spine, Ramon's head rolls off his shoulders, landing on the bloody cement like a sack of meat.
My chest is heaving, huge breaths, in and out. My Iris. Carrington knew something about her abduction two years ago. What else did she know?
Trofim steps forward. "Sir, where would you like me to take the head?"
"Put it in her judge's chambers at 60 Centre Street. Sitting on her desk. Her robes aren't going to save her."
This doesn't feel the same as my other kills. There's no righteous flame burning in me with the need to turn another monster into ash.
This time, I'm the monster.
And I will burn and slash my way through half of this city if it keeps Iris safe.
***
malen'kiy tsvetok - Russian for little flower