33. Basilio
Basilio
F our fucking weeks.
I’ve looked for her everywhere. I even had men watching Brennan’s house. Her Jeep was there. Her friends were there. Wynter wasn’t.
I went to Yale, and I heard from the building attendant that all her stuff was boxed up and sent to Davina Hayes-Brennan. When I asked why, he just said the girl disappeared and one of her roommates was handling her affairs.
If only I could get my hands on Davina. I seriously contemplated kidnapping her so I could question her. Priest hacked into Wynter’s phone to find it was wiped clean. He attempted to hack into Brennan’s network, but that was blocked.
“You can’t keep this up,” Dante muttered. “We’re chasing ghosts.”
We sat in the back of the graffitied entrance to one of the Bratva’s warehouses in Long Island, which served as their lab. There was one thing I learned over the last four weeks. The Russians had been expanding all around New York. That had to end.
“No, we’re not,” I hissed. The three of us came along with our ten best men. “She is somewhere. People don’t disappear into thin air.”
There was something that had been bothering me about Wynter’s abduction.
It lacked logic and reasoning behind it.
They left my father alive, much to my regret.
I’d rather they have killed him or taken him, and left Wynter behind.
But it would seem my father schmoozed the Russians too and somehow talked himself out of getting killed.
“Jesus, Basilio. You have to get yourself together,” Priest added, his eyes focused on the blade of his knife as he kept turning it over. “Maybe she escaped the Russians and just changed her mind about marrying you.”
Dante punched his younger brother in his shoulder so I wouldn’t. I gritted my teeth that he would even say something like that.
“My father shouldn’t have been at my place,” I said, that fucking day replaying in my mind over and over again. Nothing my father said sat well with me. None of it made sense. Too many inconsistencies.
“Do you suspect he set it up?” Dante inquired. The fact that we had to even wonder about it was fucked up. But that was who my father was. He’d stab anyone in the back, including me.
“Too many coincidences,” I said, frustrated that I couldn’t solve this puzzle.
“It was almost as if the kidnapping of her friend was a distraction.” Their expression told me they agreed with it.
“My father shows up, surveillance in my home fails, most of the city block around my home was corrupted. The Russians leave him alive. Nobody gets that lucky.”
“Except for your father,” Priest commented. “Though I have to agree. Bratva is not known to leave survivors.”
The moment he said it, he realized his mistake and a string of curses left him.
“Let’s go,” I told them all.
There was no time to waste.
* * *
The attack was brutal and bloody. We almost lost a man. The Bratva had more men than we anticipated, but we powered through it.
After hours of fighting and killing, and then torturing Russian assholes for information, we were down to the last two bastards.
“Nyet, nyet,” one of them started. Then a string of Russian words left his mouth.
Nothing would save them. But first I’d get some information. “Switch to English or Italian,” I said as I cocked my gun. The ugly fucker covered in tattoos attempted to spit at us.
Then as if in slow motion, my restraint snapped. Over the last four weeks, I had been hanging by the thread. My rage took over and I lunged at him. The Glock in my hand turned into a weapon. But not to land a bullet in him, but to strike. Again and again.
“Who are you?” I roared. “Why are you in my city?”
He smiled, stupid and gruesome, showing me his bloodstained mouth and teeth.
“Kill this one,” Dante said with a twisted smile, eyeing the other captive. “And we’ll work on this one. I’d bet my money that this one speaks English.”
The other guy’s head shook vigorously, then uttered words in Russian. Suka. Yeah, I understood that one.
The shot rang out loud and ended the first Russian. Then we all turned our attention to the next one. We’d call him suka guy for the duration of his short miserable life.
“He’s sensitive to being called a bitch,” Priest remarked casually to the other one who just about pissed his pants.
“Can I?” Priest asked when I readied to start working on the fucker. It has been the only way to release my fucking frustration lately. Killing people.
Fuck, I wanted to deny him. I needed to release this rage festering inside me, but I also knew I had been walking the thin line between rage and sanity. And the monster that relished inflicting pain wasn’t satisfied. Not yet, but I nodded my head just the same.
Priest produced a piece of glass from somewhere and he stepped forward to drive it into the back of the fucker’s hand. Then I watched him pry his mouth open as he drove it into his tongue.
“How in the fuck is he supposed to talk with a hole in his mouth?” Dante complained.
Priest shrugged. “It’s not clean off. He can still talk.” Dante rolled his eyes. “Fine, since you’re so sensitive,” Priest caved, then let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll stop playing with his tongue.”
So he sunk the sharpest point of the glass into his ribs. “I’ll just play with his ribs.”
“You’re one sick motherfucker,” I told my cousin Priest.
His answer was a slightly unhinged grin.
Dante shot us both a look, then just shrugged. “You’re both sick fuckers.”
“Thank you,” Priest and I answered at the same time.
My demons danced through my veins, eager to play with the fucker. Eager to make him suffer. It had been weeks and I kept waiting for the break. For any piece of information that would bring me a step closer to her.
So I caved into the monster and took a step towards the Russian, while Priest muttered his last rites. While he was twisting the glass in his ribs, my hand wrapped around his throat and I squeezed.
“Why is the Bratva here?” I growled. “Who’s your fucking Pakhan?”
Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth as he choked. I released the grip just enough to let him speak.
“You’ll never see our Pakhan coming,” he garbled out, wheezing. “Death is coming for all of you.”
I slammed my forehead against his. Bone against bone. The buzzing in my head was welcomed. It was exactly the kind of pain I needed. But he didn’t. His scream traveled over the empty room like a shockwave.
“Fucking crazy Italians,” he hissed, gurgling on his own blood, eyeing us warily.
“You ain’t seen crazy yet,” Priest laughed, then started reciting the last rites. Again. “May the Holy Spirit free you from this miserable life and sins swallow you whole with the grace of the Holy Spirit.”
Priest really liked this one.
I pulled out my knife and stabbed his thigh with it. As Priest twisted the glass into his ribs, I worked on tearing his thigh up.
“Let’s start again.” Dante leaned against the wall, watching the scene unfold. “See, my cousin and brother quite enjoy torturing. They can last days, playing with their prey. So you might want to speed up and tell us what you know.”
Then to prove his point, I struck the Glock into his skull. And again. The crunch of breaking bones mixed with his pained screams.
“Who are the Russians looking for?” I demanded. There was no mistake, they were looking for someone. The fuckers were all over New York, attacking different organizations. Brennans. Me. Russians in New Orleans. Columbians. Even Yakuza. “Who’s your fucking Pakhan? Last warning.”
Then to show him I meant business, I pushed the knife deeper into his thigh.
“Winter Volkov,” he screamed out a name and I froze. So did Priest. Shock washed over me and I stilled.
“Who?” I asked, my voice cold and detached.
“Winter Volkov,” he panted, his accent heavy. “Pakhan’s daughter. She's dead, but they are looking for Winter Volkov’s descendants.”
“Who’s they?” I asked harshly.
“Akim Kazimir,” he whimpered. “He has a lead and works directly with the Pakhan. That’s all I know, I swear.”
He cried like a baby, repeating it was all he knew. Over and over again.
“I believe you,” I told him finally and raised my gun.
“Amen, motherfucker,” Priest finally ended his last rite, just as I pulled the trigger.
Turning to Priest, I found him already scouring the web, digging for information.
“You know I’m getting blood all over my fucking electronics,” he grumbled as his fingers flew over the screen.
“I’ll buy you another one,” I vowed.
“You complain about blood on your electronics, while you’re soaked in it.” Dante shook his head. “You’re both fucking idiots. You won’t get into my car like that. I have white leather seats.”
We flipped him off without raising our gazes off the screen of Priest’s fancy device.
All the while my heart thundered and the darkness in my vision slowly lifted. This has to be a sign. The name couldn’t be a coincidence. It wasn’t exactly a common name and everyone knew of the Volkov Russian family. Practically Russian mafia royalty.
“Fuck. Me.” Priest’s voice interrupted my thinking and my eyes snapped to his. He flipped over the screen and a picture filled my vision.
I froze, staring at the image of the woman I had been searching for. It was almost identical - same eyes, same curls, same face. The only thing that was different were the freckles on my Wynter’s face.
“Winter Volkov,” Priest rasped. “Winter with an i, rather than y.”
Fuck. Me.
My Wynter was a Russian mafia princess.