34. Konstantin
34
KONSTANTIN
Zampa proved to be worth every penny in the end.
He gave up the location of the brownstone that Domenico is hiding in. He was also kind enough to tell me every little detail about the security of the place. There’d been no need for him to divulge as much information as he needed.
The address was plenty.
I call Sima on my way there, and tap the Uzi against my knee the entire ride.
“You’re not a very patient man, are you?” the Chechen asks me.
I don’t tear my eyes away from the building. I crane my neck to see the top, visualizing any would-be ambushes that might be set.
“I’m a man with very little time.”
He laughs heartily, then cracks his neck. The popping sound makes my jaw click—it sounds so much like bullets. I’m on edge, ready to break into the penthouse and start slaughtering anyone in my way .
“You can breathe easy, Konstantin Yurevich,” he tells me while gazing at his phone. “My boys will see you through this.”
His words send a shocking amount of adrenaline through my veins. I thought I was high-keyed before, but now I’m vibrating. “Tell them they can kill whoever they want, but Domenico is for me.”
“My men are good at killing, not so great at the little details,” he tells me.
“If they kill Domenico, I’ll hurt them,” I say flatly. “And you as well. That’s a promise.”
He stares down his nose, then lets out a dry sigh.
“ Khorosho .” Fishing in the front pocket of his gray camouflage pants, he holds up a stiff, glossy card pinched between his two fingers. “When this is over, I expect this card to be completely topped up.”
Taking the card, I turn it from side to side, then put it in the pocket next to my hip pouch. “You’ll get your money, I assure you.”
“Forgive me for being a little jumpy.” There’s a twinkle in the pits of his eyes. “It’s been a very exciting day.”
Opening the passenger door of the terracotta-colored van we’ve been sitting in on the street, I take a breath of clean air. It’s dark out, just past ten, and the city isn’t asleep—New York City doesn’t know what rest is. But the area we’re in is quiet enough, free of wandering bystanders or police.
Across the street, on the right side of the penthouse, I clock Sima in black clothing. A grim line is drawn across his mouth and he nods when he sees me. More men are milling about, and as soon as they spot the Chechen, they motion with two fingers .
It’s time.
Jogging across the street, I head for the front doors. Through the glass, I see the lobby is well lit; there’s no one at the main desk. I’m barely inside with Sima before ten of the Chechen’s men trail me, their heavy boots stomping on the white tiles floor, marring them with smudges.
“Watch those corners,” I say, “And cover me.”
Silently, they bend to their tasks, hoisting their guns to their chest as they take up their position.
The room comes alive. Metal clicks on metal as guns are unholstered. The Chechen and his group flood the brownstone like vultures on a fresh carcass. One by one, they aim at any man in reach, wordlessly packing them with bullets while Sima and I charge forward.
I join in, shooting into the chest of a man who turns the corner. Another man behind him takes aim at me, but goes down from a well-placed shot from Sima. The thin-rimmed gold glasses he’s wearing shatter when the bullet pierces his eye socket.
Whirling, I shoot another Ferrata soldier who was preparing to jump me. It’s chaos now. Over the sound of guns and screams, I roar my demand. “Domenico! Come out! Come out and die!”
Sima laughs next to me, his gun sounding like a woodpecker hammering a tree. “Looks like everyone in here feels like dying tonight!”
I didn’t plan to massacre a room full of strangers, but it looks like that’s what’s going to happen. But nobody is intent on talking.
“I’m going up the stairs, cover me!” I sprint upwards as a burst of gunfire erupts around me from the defenders up the landing .
“Kostya!” Sima shouts as he tosses me a grenade. A savage smile turns up on my face as I pull the pin and lob it towards the source of gunfire.
The explosion leaves my ears ringing, and satisfaction thrums through me when I hear screaming from amidst the din.
But still, no Domenico.
“Come out and face me, you piece of shit!”
Glass shatters, clinking across the floor as a lamp pops. One of the Chechen’s men grunts as he takes a three-round burst to the arm. Someone must have injured him, but when I look up, he sends a staccato burst of his own towards the source. Blood splatters the wall, and he offers me a gap-toothed grin.
“All clear, Konstantin Yurevich!”
I make my way up the stairs and see a man, dying, reach for his gun. Kicking it away, I shoot him in the back twice. That’s the only mercy I’m willing to extend him.
We stack up around the frame of a door. Every other entryway has been accounted for. This is it.
This is where it all ends.
I shiver at the thought.
With a roar, I kick the door open and fire a burst into the room. Sima follows it up with a grenade. Once the explosion rings out, we rush as a group through it.
I look around, half expecting Domenico, but find nothing.
A terrible premonition slips through my stomach, like I’ve swallowed bits of lead. Did they know we were coming? If Domenico got word, he might have run off with Emily! Panic gives me speed. I keep busting down doors. Empty, empty, empty! I’m growing furious at every abandoned room .
A door ahead shifts—someone is opening it from the inside. Worried it’s a Ferrata soldier with a weapon, I rush for it, pushing it open. My gun lifts, ready to fire at my unprepared enemy.
Domenico tries to scramble away, but his crippled legs crumple under him.
In a second, I have him pinned under my body. Maybe in another lifetime, he’d be quicker.
Too bad.
He grunts, struggling to escape my grasp. I wrap my fingers tight in his jacket, wrenching him from the floor and hurling him against the nearest wall. His shoulder hits first, then his skull; he wails in pain. I nod at the door he was heading for. “End of the fucking line, Domenico.”
He pants heavily, hands held up to show he’s done fighting. “Fuck you, you Russian prick!”
Giving his ribs a hard kick, I bark at the Chechen. “Help me restrain him.”
One of the Chechen’s men grabs a chair. Another fetches cordage from somewhere. Domenico doesn’t fight anymore. He allows us to tie him with his feet to the chair legs and arms behind his back.
Sima walks over and hands me a thick heavy cleaver. When Domenico sees it, the front of his pants darkens and I can smell his piss filling the room.
“Is this your whole plan?” he yells, trembling. “You’re going to chop me up? Finish the job from fifteen years ago?”
“Yeah, actually.”
Rolling my sleeves to my elbows, I hold the cleaver in the dim lighting, checking the edge with my thumb. Domenico’s eyes stay firmly on me as I walk casually towards him. My voice is calm and collected.
“Any last words?” I crouch down, showing him the blade. His chin is shaking now. Tears start running down his cheeks.
The Chechen watches hungrily from the corner.
“Please …” Domenico sobs pathetically. “Please don’t do this.”
My smile is barren.
“For what it’s worth, old friend.” I tap the flat edge of the cleaver on his cheekbone. His sweat reflects in the metal. “You brought all of this on yourself.”
The cleaver rises, gleaming silver.
And when it descends, it splatters rubies all over the walls.
When we make it outside, I motion at The Chechen.
“What do you need?” He asks.
“Tell your men to go get some gasoline and lighter fluid.”
“What will you do?” he asks gruffly.
“I’m burning this place down.”
The Chechen is quiet, but then slowly, he starts to laugh. “Konstantin Yurevich, you are one for theatrics.”
He snaps his fingers and barks out command to his men, who immediately rush off towards the nearest hardware store down the blocks.
A few minutes later, they return, arms laden with enough lighter fluid to burn the place down, and then some.
A bright flash of determination builds in me as I accept one bottle of lighter fluid after another. Walking through the front doors, I spill the accelerants on the floor, the bed, and even splash some onto the walls. As I descend the stairs, I do another cursory search for any more men. I’m alone. Wandering from room to room, I douse random items with gasoline.
Gritting my teeth, I spill the final drops on the rug at the entryway.
“Sima.” I turn to my best friend. “Your lighter please.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” He smirks as he flips it open and hands it to me.
Without another word, I toss it onto the rug. The flames shoot up in a loud whoosh and it spreads across the floor, and leaps towards the curtains. I turn around and prop open the front door to let in a draft.
Fire follows behind me as fresh oxygen rushes in. By the time I make it to the street, I turn to watch the flames crackle out from every window. Heat reaches me even at this distance. Smoke is already exiting the windows above. It roils through the dark sky, thick enough that it reflects the red angry glow below.
Together, we stand there watching the fire as it slowly licks out of the building.
“Is this it?” Sima asks. “Have we won?”
“Not yet,” I answer him. “I need you to do one final thing that will ensure our safety. Go set up a meeting with Zhanna Nikolaeva.”
“Not any of the pakhans?” Sima cocks an eyebrow.
I shake my head. “She’s the real lever to press to get the men to fall in line in this country.”
More than just a lever, that woman might as well be the godmother for all of the East Coast Bratvas. Her great-grandfather established the first bratva in America, and rumor had it that her blood is truly royal. Whether the stories are true or not, one thing is for certain.
When Zhanna Nikolaeva speaks, men listen.
“And what do you want me to tell her? ”
“That I have no plans to take anything that belongs to the Ferrata Mafia here in New York, and that a ceasefire between them and the Lanzzare Mafia will go nowhere without me to unify them.”
“And where will you be?”
“The Somewhere Bar ,” I answer. “I’m going to tell Emilio Lanzzare the same thing.”