37. Basilio
Basilio
T he obsession to find Wynter grew deeper and deeper.
It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t good for business. Yet, I couldn’t give up. The need to find her burned hot. It was Christmas Eve and I wondered if the golden haired principessa would be celebrating it in Russia or somewhere else in the world.
My phone rang and I glanced at the caller ID. Priest.
“Yeah,” I answered.
“Are you coming?” Priest, Dante, Emory, and I would spend Christmas in Philly.
I had avoided fucking Philly like the plague, but it was either sit it out in New York alone and risk seeing my fucking father, or spend it with family that actually had my back.
Besides, Emory deserved to have us all there.
“Yes.”
“Then stop dicking around and get your ass over here,” he grumbled. “It's Christmas weekend. Give this hunt a rest.” When I didn’t answer, he continued, “Basilio, maybe she doesn’t want to be found. Have you thought about that?”
Every goddamn day.
“Have you located Brennan?” There was no point in answering his question. He knew the answer.
“I did. He’s in Portugal with his wife and her family.”
I thought back to Davina’s background that Angelo dug up. Just like Wynter’s, there wasn’t much there.
“I thought she only had a grandfather?” At this point, I started to think everything we knew was fucking shit. Maybe Angelo fed us crap on Father’s orders.
“Fuck no, she’s connected to the Nikolaevs through her sister’s marriage.”
Yeah, Angelo fed us crap. If this wasn’t evidence enough, I didn’t know what was.
“Her friends with her?” I asked.
“You didn’t say anything about friends, so I only looked up Brennan, his wife, and Wynter. Though, everything with Wynter is a dead end. So either the girl is hiding or someone’s hiding her trail.”
“Have you hacked into my father’s and Angelo’s activity?” I wouldn’t put it past them to do it and hide the trail.
“I have, and it’s not them.” He sounded sure. “You know that there is no way she didn’t know, right?”
“Didn’t know what?” I hissed.
“About the dispute between the DiLustros and Brennans. That she happens to be a descendant of one of the most powerful Pakhans in rússkaya máfiya. That she’s a fucking Russian mafia princess.”
I kept going back and forth and as much as I hated to admit it, Priest was right. It was hard to believe she had not known about it. Even if I assumed she didn’t know about her Russian heritage, she definitely knew about her Irish heritage and she withheld it.
It was still hard to believe that Wynter was the descendant of the Volkov family. She was part of the underworld all along. The resemblance to her ancestors was remarkable. It was as if she didn’t inherit a single trait of the Brennan family.
Except her deception. She played me well. Not for a moment did I doubt her part in the underworld and there she had connections to the Russians and the Irish. No wonder my brutality didn’t bother her.
And still I refused to let go of her.
“I’ll see you soon,” I finally said. “Keep my sister entertained and happy.”
I ended the call and watched the deserted street.
Empty. Just like Priest’s search on the Volkov descendants.
He searched up everything on Winter Volkov.
There wasn’t much. She married the old Brennan and died young.
We searched for information on Aisling Brennan, but that was a dead end road.
No pictures. Same when it came to her daughter.
The only reasonable explanation was that Wynter was Aisling Brennan’s daughter. The woman my father shot.
And although everything pointed to Brennan’s sister being dead, there was no way she could be. Brennan must have changed Aisling and her baby’s identity.
Jesus Christ!
I let out a frustrated breath, the cold winter air filling my lungs.
At this point, I was certain my father’s presence at my home that day wasn’t a coincidence.
Of course, I had no proof. I should kill him and be done with the fucker.
If only it wouldn’t bring down the Syndicate on us.
I didn’t care if it was just me, but it’d be held against Emory, Priest, and Dante too.
So instead, I focused on finding Wynter.
The hope of finding her grew dimmer and dimmer by the day, but I refused to let it extinguish.
I wouldn’t survive it. My humanity certainly wouldn’t.
I fucking needed her and I never needed anything.
I never kissed a mouth that tasted like hers.
I never experienced a touch that soothed and burned like hers.
I shook my head, frustration clawing at my chest. I was born to a monster and became one. Over the last six months, my darkness ruled me. It ran in my veins like poison and Wynter’s lightness was my only cure. I wouldn’t stop searching until I found her. Until I made her fulfill her promise.
She said she would stay. I’d make her stay.
Time to focus.
I glanced around the street on the outskirts of Jersey City.
There was only one restaurant on this entire street, probably the entire block.
The Bratva didn’t like competition in any area of life.
The restaurant sat facing the murky, polluted waters of Newark Bay.
The restaurant fancied itself on a water view.
More like a sewer view. Leave it to a Russian to fancy up the view.
The street was empty. Most normal people preferred to stay home and celebrate Christmas Eve with their family. Russians weren’t normal people in my book. Besides, they didn’t celebrate Christmas Eve on the same day as everyone else. Worked for me.
I entered the restaurant and sat myself by the table that gave me the entire view of the restaurant and the shitty water.
There were only two men seated around. Probably a cook and a waitress back there somewhere.
I locked eyes with a mustached man that looked like he was born in the last century by the way he dressed.
Some kind of Romanov style mustache. He couldn’t be more than forty, but dressed like he was a hundred and forty. No fucking style with these Russians.
His eyes shifted around, nervous and panicked. Then he glanced to the door, whether debating to run or expecting reinforcements, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. I’d kill the motherfucker whether he knew something or didn’t. In my eyes, all Russians were guilty.
A waitress peeked her head, checking to see if indeed there was a customer. My heart stopped. Golden blonde hair. Our eyes met. Disappointment washed over me. They were the wrong color. She came out of the back room and more bitterness slithered through my veins.
Wrong hair too. Blonde but not quite the same shade. Straight.
You’d think after almost six months of hunting for Wynter, I’d get used to this feeling. Disappointment. Anguish. Regret.
She came up to my table. “What can I get for you?”
She looked beaten down. About Wynter’s age, she looked battered mentally and physically.
“Whatever the evening’s special is.”
She nodded and went to the kitchen. While I unfolded the wrapped silverware never looking away from the mustache.
Akim Kazimir, the Pakhan’s most trusted man.
The second man had to be his bodyguard, because while his boss ate and slurped like it was his last meal, the other guy just sat at the table.
I’ll make it his last meal , I mused sardonically to myself.
I just hoped the motherfucker didn’t throw up all this shit he was stuffing himself with.
It’d make cleanup a bitch, not that I’d be personally doing it.
Or I might just have my men blow up this motherfucking waterview restaurant. It’d save us time.
It took no time for the meal to arrive, considering I was the only other customer. I didn’t bother eating it. I sat back in my chair, watching the man who I searched for over the last few months.
It didn’t take long for the waitress to come back, her steps tentative and her look hesitant.
“Would you like anything else to drink or eat?” she asked, her eyes flitting to the neighboring table. She knew damn well I didn’t want anything else, since I hadn’t touched a thing.
“You might want to stay in the kitchen for a while,” I told her, my fingers wrapping around the steak knife in my hand.
To her credit, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t look back to the neighboring table.
I saw an understanding flash in her eyes and she slowly turned around, then headed to the back of the restaurant.
The fucker at the other table never stopped eating. He had to be sure of himself, considering I was alone.
The second the waitress disappeared, I threw the knife, the swish sound of it slices through the air until it hit the bodyguard right in the throat.
The clatter of the silverware and gurgling barely registered and before the other fucker could do a thing, I was already at his table and stabbed my fork right through his left hand.
“Not so fast, comrade,” I drawled, ignoring his yelp. “We’re going to talk first.”
“You fucking DiLustros are all crazy,” he hissed.
“Ahhh, so you know who I am,” I deadpanned. “Good, let’s cut to the chase then. Tell me where you have my woman.”
He snickered. “What woman?”
“Ah, see when you say it like that, I’m certain you have her.”
He shook his head. “Who’s your woman?” he whimpered.
“Wynter Star.” Honestly, we couldn’t confirm if that was her real name. I thought so since she always responded without delay. Besides, if she was hiding her identity, why pick her grandmother’s name? Everyone knew the name of the Pakhan’s daughter. Well, everyone except me until recently.
Lesson learned.
His eyes flashed with surprise and I realized my fucking mistake. I revealed my cards. He didn’t know I was looking for Wynter.
No matter, he wouldn’t get out of this alive.
He reached for the knife with his other hand and slashed it at me. My reflexes quick, I caught his wrist then twisted it backwards, the sound of crunching bones filling the air. I grabbed his throat and squeezed hard.
“Now, let’s play nice,” I growled. “Shall we?”
He spat at me, at least he attempted to. He was lousy at that too, because the spit only drooled down his face. Fucking moron.
“You’ll tell me what you know,” I declared darkly. “And I’ll make your death quick.”
“Never!” he hissed.
“They all say that in the beginning,” I said coldly, then smiled with all the cruelty swimming in my veins. There was no need to mask it anymore.
My father was a disgusting piece of shit with a sadistic streak, but in moments like this, it was welcomed. I let it taint my veins and take over.
His left hand still sported a fork stabbed in it and I reached for my gun, then shot him twice. One in the left hand and one in the right.
His eyes bulged and he yelped like a baby.
“There we go,” I purred. “Both of your hands are disabled. Now talk.” Blood pooled on the table, mixing with his disgusting dinner. “You can take your time,” I told him, smirking. “I have nowhere else to be.”
Well, except Philly but that was a different kind of torture. The self-inflicted kind.
“You’re just as crazy as your father,” he screamed, pain twisting his face. It made his mustache all wrong. Not that it was right to start with. “DiLustros are monsters. Filthy, sick monsters.”
My mouth curved into a cruel smile. “Then you know what I’m capable of.
You really want to keep all your secrets?
” I pulled out my Ka-Bar knife and cut through his crappy Russian tailored suit.
Then I repeated the move, except this time I cut through his flesh.
A long line from his shoulder to his wrist. “I’m still practicing my fileting skills. ”
So I started slicing, separating his skin from his muscles and his high-pitched screams filled the room.
“I can do this for days,” I said with a twisted grin.
“We’re looking for her too,” he screamed like a woman. I paused my movement and waited for him to continue. “Pakhan is looking for her too,” he repeated, panting. “We want her and her mother back.”
“You don’t have her?” I asked to ensure there are no misunderstandings.
He shook his head, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.
“We thought they were dead, until recently. We got a tip that she lived. Aisling Brennan and her daughter.” Then he laughed, slightly crazy and psychotic, coughed out blood.
“It was your father who gave us the tip in exchange for a bride. He wants to grow your power.”
Fuck. Me.
Rage boiled inside me, consuming me. Just as the blood of this motherfucker soaked through my clothes, so did the hate I had for my father. I didn’t think I could hate him more. I was so fucking wrong.
“He wanted an alliance, a marriage arrangement between DiLustro and Volkov,” he continued, spitting blood all over himself.
“Which DiLustro?” I asked, my voice strangely calm.
“Don’t know. He never said. Pakhan refused his despicable offer. Volkov wouldn’t further dilute the bloodline with DiLustros,” he choked out, then coughed again. “Brennans were bad enough.”
I didn’t fucking care about their bloodline. Wynter was mine. I was fucking desperate to rip into him and end his miserable life. But I couldn’t do it too soon.
“What else?” I bit out, the fury simmering through my veins.
“Our men followed you two in Philly, but then they lost you.” The black Land Rover. The men Priest and I tortured. “We were so close. And now she disappeared again. You and your father are to blame.”
It was all I needed to know. The Russians didn’t have her.
This time I gripped his throat and squeezed as hard as I could until the veins in his eyes began to pop and I felt bones in his throat crushing under the force of my grip. He kept fighting. Goddamn Russian’s had thick necks. So I brought up my knife with the other hand and sliced him ear-to-ear.
I watched the light extinguish in his eyes and his blood soak my hands.
Breathing harshly, I turned to find the waitress watching me with sheer terror in her eyes. I couldn’t blame her.
“I won’t hurt you,” I rasped. “You can leave or I can help you disappear. Your choice.”
She blinked. Once, twice. “My mother is the cook.”
“Both of you then,” I offered, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.
Where are you, Wynter?