Chapter Eight
In which Jack loses an eye and Roman loses an opportunity.
Roman….
A week later…
Jack Barton's girlfriend lives in Queens in a trendy building on a recently gentrified street. I know this because there is an expensive coffee shop next door, and a music store that sells only vinyl records.
I broke into her condo and while he was treating her to the best three minutes and twenty seconds of her life, I remotely paired his phone and installed the tracker in seconds, finishing just as he did.
It’s easy enough to track his comings and goings, which is good because I don't enjoy having to chase this asshole all over Manhattan.
To be fair, Jack does seem to keep to a strict schedule.
Tuesdays and Thursdays are spent gambling at one of the Bianchi Mafia's many underground casinos or visiting his bookie.
Friday nights find Jack hitting one of the bars in the Financial District, moving with the other Chads in a drunken herd reeking of entitlement and Hugo Boss cologne.
Saturdays are for high profile events or an expensive restaurant to show off Poppy, and Sundays are spent golfing with The Chads and drinking heavily at the country club bar.
Even with that busy schedule, he still has time to fit in a squash game or two and visit his girlfriend Marlee twice a week. I had to double check her age because she looks younger than nineteen and if she'd been underage, I would have enjoyed torturing him for a very long time before killing him.
I've decided that making it look like a hit for unpaid gambling debts is the easiest route. Fucking with the Italians is never a good idea, especially for a civilian. Tonight is Tuesday, and Jack's keeping to his schedule, visiting his bookie, and parking his Jaguar behind the building.
As if that'll hide it. The Jaguar is black with excessive aftermarket chrome with a license plate that reads INTHECLUB. It's so pathetic that no self-respecting car thief would boost it, though I am considering spray painting a tiny dick on the hood.
He comes out of his bookie's place humming, smoothing his hair in the reflection of his car window before I slip behind him, pulling out my knife. There's a symbol the Italians like to carve on their victims and I'll cut it into his chest right after I slice his throat.
But first, some questions.
My arm goes around his neck, he shrieks before I cut off his air, a high feminine sound that is in no way enhancing his attempt to cultivate a reputation as an Apex predator.
"If you try to scream again, I will cut your throat," I murmur, tracing the curved blade of Damascus steel down his cheek and he gives a soft whimper.
"You've been a busy boy, Jack," I say. "Does Poppy know about your visits with Marlee?
" He violently shakes his head, muffled grunts coming out from under my arm.
"What about all those losses at the Bianchi casinos?
" I give his cheek some light scrapes with my blade, like I'm giving him the world's most terrifying shave.
He twitches, eyes following the pass of the blade.
"I'm going to pull my arm back a little, but if you make a single noise or attempt to go for a panic button, I will gut you like a deer. Are we clear?"
Jack nods as much as my arm will allow. I've picked a good spot for this conversation.
His bookie's office is in a dilapidated office park in the Bronx.
All the security cameras in the area are already disabled and no one who wants to live longer than tonight is going to take a stroll through this tiny parking lot.
"Look, we- we can come to an arrangement here," he rasps. "I don't know who sent you but-" He croaks as my arm tightens around his throat and there's a tiny cracking noise.
"Ah, that's likely your C2 slipping sideways," I say conversationally. "Those cervical vertebrae are so fragile, huh? If the C2 breaks, you'll never turn your head again."
He lets out another terrified croak.
"When it breaks, your head sags sideways, ear touching your shoulder. It's disgusting," I continue, arm tightening. "It might have happened once or twice when I've had someone in a choke hold. Occasionally, I accidentally crush their esophagus. The cartilage cracking sounds fucking disgusting."
I slam him face-first against the building, a crumbling brick wall that lets off a little cloud of dust as he hits it.
"It's time for complete transparency between us, Jack.
" I slap a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.
"How are you planning on paying off that debt to the Italians?
Because if there wasn't a plan, your bookie wouldn't be taking your bets right now.
Does that include selling Violet and her sisters to those corporate fucks you work with? "
"It's not like that," he stammers. "Poppy and I are looking out for them. They need stability. All three of them are naive and unreliable. They need guidance. This world will gobble them up and spit them out."
My thumb digs into the corner of his left eye as he whimpers. Slamming him harder against the brick wall, I enjoy the weak puff of air escaping his bloody lips.
"Your idea of stability is selling 18-year-old girls to your country club pricks so that they can control them for the rest of their lives? What do you get?"
His right eye is darting back-and-forth, desperately scanning the parking lot. Does this dumb fuck really think someone's going to come to the rescue? Clearly, he knows nothing about this neighborhood.
"Well, not a thing," he says, struggling for the correct tone of self-righteousness. "Except- except for the satisfaction of seeing them taken care of-"
I slam his head against the wall again, my thumb pushing harder against his eye.
"They're just helping me with a few debts," he stammers. "Raising a family is expensive, after all." It is everything I can do to keep from laughing, but that's going to mess up the sinister vibe I've got going here.
"Here's what's going to happen next," I say conversationally.
"You're going to tell me exactly how much they're paying you and how they're planning on keeping those girls under control.
And if I feel you are not being thorough in your explanation, I'm popping your left eye out like a grape.
" My thumb digs in deeper and a little trickle of blood goes down his pale face.
"I have a twenty-million-dollar gambling debt!" he half screams, his bound hands beating futilely against my arm.
"What else?"
"And- and I become vice-president over Mergers and Acquisitions I'll be the fourth highest manager in the company with- with stock shares!" Jack bleats, trying to get his head loose from my grip.
"Twenty million for three beautiful, well-educated girls? Actually, that's pretty cheap, Jack. You're not a strong negotiator," I say. "Out on the open market you could've tripled that deal."
Jack's eyes widen and he croaks out, "Really?"
This motherfucker.
That's it.
Pulling out my knife, I flip his eyeball out, shoving my fist up under his jaw to jam his mouth shut, smothering his scream. Dropping the eye on the ground with a flick of my fingers, I raise my knife. Now, it's just one clean arc to slash across his carotid artery and I'm done here.
A high whine passes my head, like a mosquito on steroids and a bullet slams into the brick wall next to us before I can cut his throat.
And then another. Whipping Jack around, I use him as a human shield as I pull out my Glock, firing into the darkness.
It takes four steps to get to his shitty Jaguar and then I kick him loose, grabbing the keys off the driver's seat and starting the car.
I'm roaring out of the parking lot as two more bullets slam into the back of the car, the chassis shuddering under the impact. Another one shatters the rear window.
"Tupyye, nazoylivyye, vmeshivayushchiyesya ublyudki! Stupid fucking interfering pieces of shit!" I take the corner on two wheels. I couldn't tell if those bullets were meant for me or for Jack, but somebody just fucked up my tidy plan. Pulling out my phone, I call Ivan.
"Get over to Violet Monroe's apartment. Eleven forty-six Midden Ave, apartment 3B. Bring six men with you. She's under my protection and someone's probably coming for her. I'll meet you there in-" I check the car's map app, "-fifteen minutes."
"Understood," he says calmly. "We can be there in ten."
This car is a piece of shit. One of the wheels is wobbling ominously with a high whine.
It probably got hit with some debris from the bullets.
Still, I get it to the parking garage under Violet's building and park in a secluded corner before racing up the three flights of stairs to her apartment.
Pulling out my Glock, I press my ear to her door.
I can hear the low murmur of Ivan's Russian accent.
Knocking once, I call out, "It's Roman. Do not shoot me."
Ivan opens the door, trying to control a grin. His team are holstering their guns.
"Nice response time, gentlemen," I say approvingly.
Violet and her two sisters are huddled together on the couch.
She's holding both their hands so tightly that her knuckles are white, and even though one of the girls is crying and the other has her head on Violet's shoulder, she's sitting ramrod straight.
Yeah, she's got her emotions in a death grip.
"What happened?" Violet asks me with remarkable calm. "Your friend Ivan here would only tell me there was a complication."
"There is," I say. "Go pack an overnight bag. You have five minutes." The two girls - Rose and Iris, that's right - both scramble to their feet, hauling ass down the hallway.
Violet stalks toward me. "You said this would be simple," she whispers in a choked voice. "You said it would be no problem."
"We had an interruption," I say.
"What does that mean?" She gets a little wrinkle between her brows that's fucking adorable but it seems like the wrong time to mention it. "An interruption?"
"Somebody shot at us when I was about to finish off Jack," I say, keeping my voice low for the benefit of her sisters.
My men are pacing through the apartment and looking out windows, checking for activity on the street.
"Whoever it was could have been there to finish Jack off themselves, or he may have protection that we didn't know about.
What is certain is that he is planning to sell you to those country club fucks - what did you call them? "
"The Chads," she supplies.
"Your sisters, too. They're paying off his twenty-million-dollar gambling debt with the Bianchi Mafia. Oh, and they're throwing in a senior management position," I say with a wry twist of my lips. "So, you can see why Jack finds this perfectly reasonable."
A slow flush blooms on her cheeks, spreading out until her entire face is red and her jaw's clenched so tightly I'm concerned she's going to shatter a molar.
"That son of a bitch," she rasps. "A senior position?
" Her voice pitches higher. "A senior position?
He was going to sell my sisters for a senior fucking position? "
"He was what?"
One of the girls is standing by the kitchenette, clutching her overnight bag. I can't tell which one, I'm going to have to tag them or something so I can keep track. "You don't have to worry about that, uh, Iris?"
She shakes her head "I'm Rose."
"I'm taking the three of you somewhere safe," I say. Her eyes dart to my hand and I realize I've been holding my Glock this entire time. I holster it, feeling like a dick.
"Sloppy, boss," Ivan leans close. "Surely, you're not shook up by losing a target?"
"Of course not. Admittedly, pulling Jack's eyeball out was a lot of fun," I huff.
"You might be understandably giddy." He nods solemnly.
"But there's no excuse for not practicing gun safety," I say.
"Here," Iris says, handing a duffel to Violet. "I packed a bag for you. I got your night mouth guard." She looks at me. "Violet grinds her teeth in her sleep. She's very tightly wound."
Seizing the backpack from her, Violet forces a smile. "Thank you, sis." Lifting her chin, she looks at me. "What's next?"
My guards surround them. Rose jumps a little, looking at the tattooed guard towering over her.
Pressing my hand gently against Violet's back, I give them what I've been told is a reassuring smile. "I'm taking you someplace safe."