Chapter 24
When I’m a mile away from the estate, I pull to the side of the road, open the glove compartment, and grab the burner inside.
I input the code and go straight to the only saved number. Hannah’s.
It rings repeatedly before going to voicemail.
I hang up, curse, and toss the phone back into the glove compartment in frustration.
Chicago is so far away, but I need to make the drive soon.
I just need to find a babysitter for my wife first.
I didn’t choose this lifestyle.
It was chosen for me by blood.
I held my first loaded gun at five.
It upset my mother, and she complained. In return, my father threatened to have me use it on her, even putting his hand over mine and forcing me to aim at her head.
This lifestyle instilled an addiction to violence toward those who’d wronged us.
Therapy was never an option.
Neither was forgetting nor forgiveness.
It’s always vengeance.
I cut off my headlights and turn into a back alley behind a dark warehouse.
“I don’t trust this motherfucker,” Julian says from my passenger seat.
I almost punched him in the face when he got in thirty minutes ago. His cologne was too fucking strong and taking over the smell of Liliya’s perfume that still lingered there.
“Me neither,” I tell him.
“At least the warehouse won’t trace back to us.” He takes off his baseball hat and rubs the back of his arm over his forehead.
We park across from a black sedan. As soon as we step out of the vehicle, the driver’s door opens. A tall man gets out, walks our way, and greets us in a thick Russian accent.
“Do you have him?” I ask, cutting straight to the point.
He nods and pops the trunk.
A light turns on, putting the man inside the trunk on display.
Mozart Rocko. He should’ve been tied down and killed a long time ago just for having that stupid fucking name. The same with his parents for choosing it.
If it hasn’t become clear, I’m a name judger.
Mozart’s eyes widen at the sight of us. He rocks from side to side, struggling to break free from the restraints. A rag is shoved in his mouth so he can’t scream.
“I already know this fucker will get on my nerves tonight,” Julian mutters as we drag him from the trunk.
I laugh when his head smacks into the taillight.
When Mozart’s resistance becomes too aggravating, I punch him in the face. He whimpers but calms his ass down. Mission accomplished.
The Russian unlocks the warehouse door and flips on the lights as we drag Mozart inside. I drop Mozart on the concrete as if he were a sleeping bag and I was a pissed-off kid whose parents had just dropped him off at camp.
The warehouse smells like mildew, chemicals, and gasoline. Random furniture is scattered throughout, and a fridge is in the corner.
A butcher’s hook hangs from the ceiling. As I get closer, I notice specks of blood on the chair beneath it and the ground.
Julian fists Mozart’s collar and drags him across the floor to a chair under the hook. He pushes Mozart into the chair as the Russian ties him to it using a rope.
“Hello, Mozart,” I greet when they’re finished.
Mozart whimpers against the rag and shakes his head to get his long hair away from his eyes.
Julian and the Russian stand behind me as I casually stroll toward Mozart and tug the rag from his mouth.
Just for a moment, I want to hear his screams.
Savor them.
It’s exactly what he does.
It’s rather disappointing though. My victims’ screams were once my favorite song, but that’s now been replaced with Liliya’s laugh.
I backhand Mozart in the face. “If you shut the fuck up, I’ll let you live.”
He slams his mouth shut.
“Where’s your phone?”
He motions toward his front pocket.
I grab it. “Passcode?”
“Sixty-nine, sixty-nine.”
The Russian chuckles behind me, and I motion him forward.
He does, and I hand him the phone.
“You do all the talking,” I instruct. “Tell him what we discussed earlier.” I clasp him on the back as if I were the coach and he was a Little Leaguer.
He eagerly nods.
I hit the contact for Dad and FaceTime him.
No one picks up.
I try again.
Voicemail.
“Boy, does your dad really love you,” I say to Mozart, who’s staring at us with a pale face and crying.
On the fifth FaceTime call, Fredricko finally answers.
Fredricko Rocko—apparently shit naming runs in the family—has the weapons connections we want.
“Say hello to your son,” the Russian says, aiming the camera at Mozart, following my earlier instructions perfectly.
“Dad!” Mozart yells, sounding like a fucking panicked teenager instead of a man my age. “Please! Tell them you’ll do anything if they let me go! Tell them we have money!”
“What do you want?” Fredricko asks, sounding almost bored.
“All your weapons connections,” the Russian replies, keeping the camera pointed at Mozart so Fredricko doesn’t see us. “We want to know how you’re getting so many unmarked weapons, so fast. You’re getting shit even the military doesn’t have.”
“I’m afraid to tell you that’s private information that I don’t share,” Fredricko replies.
“You’d better turn it into public information if you want your son to stay alive,” the Russian says.
“You are one dumb motherfucker,” Fredricko replies, his tone now more amused than bored. “You have a strong Russian accent. It’s clear who’s behind this.”
“Fuck you,” the Russian says.
“I won’t give you my connections,” Fredricko says. “Now, like my son said, I will pay you whatever you want to let him go, unharmed.”
I tap my foot against the concrete, letting the Russian know he needs to hurry and close this deal.
“Not even for the safety of your son?” the Russian asks.
Fredricko chuckles. “My son has disappointed me plenty of times. You know what hasn’t?”
None of us answers him.
Mozart continues to bitch, moan, and plead for his life.
“Money. Wealth. My legacy.” Fredricko leans forward and lights a cigar. “Whoever you are behind the phone, will you at least do me one favor?”
None of us says anything.
“Leave a few limbs for me to bury. My wife will be heartbroken about this and want a proper funeral.”
“I’ll leave you his decapitated head,” the Russian says.
“At least she’ll be able to look into the eyes, she says look so much like mine,” Fredricko comments.
“I’ll text you the address where to send his remains, should you see fit to kill him.
It’s in your best interest not to because there aren’t many Russians who’d be interested in my weapons in this country.
I’ll easily find out who you are and kill everyone.
You let my son go, and I’ll forget this ever happened. ”
The Russian glances over at me, as if the severity of his actions is finally sinking in. I give him a nod of reassurance that he’s doing the right thing.
He’s not.
Rats and traitors always die, but it’s not like I’ll tell him that.
It’s common fucking knowledge. Go to the bookstore like my wife and read about it.
As seconds pass, I notice the Russian overthinking this.
I pull my Glock from my blazer and shoot Mozart in the forehead.
To further prove my point, I pull the trigger and watch another bullet hit his cheek. I keep doing it until he has enough holes in his body to play Peg Solitaire with it. The Russian has no choice but to play by my rules now.
The Russian hurriedly ends the call.
“Clean this up,” I demand.
I don’t care how sloppy a job he does.
It’s not my warehouse.
Like Julian said, nothing here will trace back to us.
Lev nods. “Sure thing.”
I grin, loving that Aleksy’s easiest person to turn was his own underboss.
On the drive home, I pull over. I throw the door wide, hang my head out, and vomit until my stomach is empty.
A wave of dizziness hits me, and my body aches.
Somehow, I make it home without wrecking.
I drag myself up the stairs, feeling like I’ve been drugged.
Sweat drips from my forehead like a faucet.
For the first time in my thirty years, I don’t bother to change out of my clothes or lock my gun up before collapsing into bed … right beside my sleeping wife.