Chapter 32
The blood on my white shirt sleeves wasn’t mine. It was arterial, bright and hot, splattered in abstract patterns across the Egyptian cotton.
I didn’t care. The shirt was ruined. My soul, probably, too. But both were secondary considerations.
We were in the basement of an industrial laundry in Little Italy, one of the many fronts the Family used to clean dirty money. The smell down here was an aggressive mix of ammonia, cheap detergent, and the coppery tang coming off the man tied to the metal chair in the center of the room.
Gino, a low-level middleman who sold information to the highest bidder, was sobbing. He’d already lost three teeth and the ability to breathe through his nose. I held surgical pliers. My hand was steady. Absolutely still.
“Please…” Gino gurgled, spitting blood onto the concrete floor. “I swear… I didn’t know it was her… they said it was just cargo…”
“You knew it was a Family route.” My voice was low, devoid of anger. Anger is a human emotion. I wasn’t human in that moment. I was a data extraction machine. “And you sold the route. Which means you know who bought.”
I squeezed the pliers. Gino flinched, trying to pull back against the chair, but the nylon restraints cut into his wrists.
“I want a name, Gino. And I want an address. Give them to me now, and I’ll let you live long enough for the ambulance to arrive. Make me ask again…”
I brought the tool close to his left eye. I didn’t make graphic threats. I let his imagination fill in the blanks. The fear of what goes unsaid is always worse.
“Kovacs!” he screamed, squeezing his eyes shut. “It was Ivanov! The right-hand man!”
“Where?” I pressed the cold metal closer to his eyelid.
“The Old Steel Mill! In the southern industrial zone! The Hades Complex! They’re using the old furnaces as a base!”
I stopped. The Steel Mill. A labyrinth of rusted metal, suspended walkways, and walls thick enough to swallow screams. The perfect place to hide someone. Or to make someone disappear.
I released the pliers. They hit the floor with a metallic clang that made Gino shudder. I grabbed a cloth from the side table and wiped my hands. I didn’t look at Gino. He was irrelevant now. An empty shell that had already served its purpose.
“Call a doctor,” I ordered the two guards at the door. “After he’s patched up, throw him in the gutter. If I see his face in Chicago again, I finish the job.”
I left the interrogation room. I climbed the metal stairs, leaving the smell of blood behind but carrying the urgency with me. Every second that passed was a second Solaia was in their hands. A second she was in pain. A second she thought I wasn’t coming.
I reached street level at the back of the laundry. The rain had returned. Cold, relentless, washing the city’s soot away. Two black SUVs sat in the alley. But they weren’t my elite crew. They were the Capos.
Bianchi was there, leaning against the hood, holding a black umbrella. Beside him, Moretti, looking nervous. And half a dozen soldiers loyal to the old guard.
I stopped at the back door. Rain hit my face, mixing with the cold sweat from the interrogation. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
Bianchi stepped forward. He looked like a worried grandfather—if the grandfather were surrounded by armed men. “We heard, Cassian. The kidnapping. The message.”
“Then you know I don’t have time to talk.” I walked toward my car.
Moretti blocked my path. He was big, a wall of flesh. “You can’t go there, Varro. It’s a trap.”
I stopped inches from his face. “Get out of my way, Enzo.”
“Think, kid!” Moretti shouted, rain soaking his cheap suit. “They took the girl to lure you in. They want the head of the snake. If you go there, alone or with your private team, you die. And if you die, the Family falls. The Kovacs take everything.”
I looked at Bianchi. The old man sighed. “He’s right, Cassian. It’s a classic ambush. Nikolai wants you to react emotionally. He wants you to run headlong to your death. We need a plan. We need to negotiate.”
“Negotiate?” The word shot out of my mouth like a bullet. “They have my wife. They sent a video of her bleeding. And you want to negotiate?”
“She’s an asset, Cassian,” Bianchi said, trying to sound reasonable. “A valuable asset, yes. Vittorio’s daughter. But the organization’s stability comes first. We can offer territory. We can offer money. If we attack the Steel Mill, they kill her before you make it through the gate.”
An asset. That’s what I’d called her in the beginning. A liability. An asset. A line on the balance sheet. Hearing it from another man’s mouth made me want to vomit.
I reached for my holster and drew the Glock. The motion was so fast Bianchi's soldiers didn't even have time to raise their rifles. I aimed at Moretti's chest. Then I shifted the barrel to Bianchi's forehead.
The only sound in the alley was rain hitting the asphalt and car roofs.
“Listen carefully.” My voice didn't tremble. It was the sound of ice cracking. “Solaia is not an asset. She's not a bargaining chip. She's my wife.”
I released the safety. Click. “I don't give a damn about the organization's stability. I don't give a damn about territory. If Solaia dies, there won't be an organization for you to govern, because I'll come back and kill every single one of you for making me waste time.”
Bianchi went pale. He saw it in my eyes. He saw that the rational Consigliere, the man who put the Family above everything, was dead. “Cassian... this is suicide.”
“Then prepare the coffin,” I replied. “But get out of my way.”
Moretti looked at the gun, then at my eyes. He saw death there. He backed away, raising his hands. Bianchi held my gaze for one more second, then lowered his head and stepped aside. The path to my car was clear.
“If you need a new Don tomorrow morning, fight among yourselves,” I spat. “But tonight, anyone who gets in my way dies along with the Kovacs.”
I got into my SUV and threw the tactical bag onto the passenger seat. Inside: rifles, stun grenades, and enough ammunition to start a small civil war. I started the engine. The V8 roared, hungry.
I looked in the rearview mirror. The Capos stayed behind, standing in the rain, static figures from a world I no longer cared about. They were playing chess. They sacrificed queens to save kings. I wasn't playing chess. I was playing Russian roulette, and all the chambers were loaded.
I peeled out, tires screaming on the wet asphalt. The GPS on the dashboard blinked a red dot in the southern industrial zone. Hades Complex. Appropriate name.
I drove like a lunatic. Red lights were suggestions. Oncoming traffic was a tactical option. My mind, which used to be a whirlwind of strategies and numbers, was now strangely silent. There was only one image: Solaia's face in the video. The blood on her lip. Her request. Kill them all.
I gripped the steering wheel. The leather creaked. “I'm coming, Sol,” I whispered into the empty cabin.
The rain picked up, turning the world outside into a gray blur. I checked the weapons on the seat beside me. An HK416. A Benelli M4. Two extra Glocks. A Ka-Bar knife. Tools of destruction.
I wasn't going in there to negotiate. I wasn't going in there to take prisoners. I was going in there to fulfill her order. I was going to be the monster she needed me to be.
Industrial smokestacks appeared on the horizon, black towers against the purple sky of the polluted city. I killed the headlights to approach unseen. The predator was in stealth mode.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with cold air from the AC, trying to lower my heart rate. Not to calm myself, but to aim better. The hunt was over. The massacre was about to begin.