Chapter 6 #2
Before I reach it, I glance back. They’re still in the parking lot. Mikhail’s shaking his head, all wound up. Daniil has a hand on his arm, trying to calm him down like always. Fuck, I love getting him riled. He’s always had a short fuse. The drugs just make it shorter.
I walk in and cut across the warehouse floor. None of the workers look at me directly, just keep their heads down and focus on their tasks. At some point, my brothers catch up with me. We take the freight elevator down to the basement where we handle interrogations.
The room opens up, and Calder’s there, crouched in front of some guy who’s bound and gagged in a metal chair.
He glances over when he hears us approach and smirks at us.
Even I can’t stand looking at him for too long. He doesn’t have to try to unsettle people, but he does it anyway, like he enjoys watching them squirm under his attention.
His tattoos leave almost nothing untouched on his body. Arms, chest, crawling up his throat and across his jaw, ink etched into the skin of his forehead, and down the back of his shaved head. And then those eyes—dark brown, so dark they look wrong on his pale face.
My older brother Yulian is the reason this lunatic started working for our family.
Found him homeless after he got out of the Navy and offered him work instead of leaving him to rot.
Turned out to be the best decision he ever made.
Calder’s competent, loyal, enjoys the work too much to ever complain.
My mother treats him like he’s one of her sons. I think she secretly wishes he was.
I stop in front of the man in the chair. Gagged, arms tied behind him, ankles bound to the chair legs.
Blood’s already dried on one side of his neck where Calder’s been working on him. Calder stands up slowly. “Look what I caught for us,” he says, grinning. “One of Nozares’s men. The warehouse where you got shot. His operation.”
The Nozares family has been testing boundaries for the past few months, but there are decades of bad blood between our families. They have old, sloppy structure, but they’re not stupid enough to move on us without reason. Their boss is pushing seventy and should know better.
Problem is, his cousin Omar Nozares runs Mexico and Cuba, and that psychopath doesn’t follow anyone’s rules but his own. Every other family in the city keeps their distance from our business.
The Nozareses are either desperate or the old man is losing his grip.
My father doesn’t want war. He wants order. When he finds out someone just tried to kill his son, that’s personal, and he takes it very seriously.
I don’t recognize this guy though. Late forties, light stubble along his jaw.
“I haven’t really started yet,” Calder says, eyes still fixed on the man. “According to my intel, he was at the warehouse the night you got shot. So go ahead, sit. I’ll get us some answers. Won’t take long. They never last as long as they think they will.”
Calder steps behind the guy and yanks the gag off. The man coughs hard, then immediately starts screaming.
“Help! Please! Help me, somebody help—”
Calder’s face lights up with the manic expression I’ve seen too many times.
The screaming drills into my skull. I slam my fist into the guy’s face, feeling his nose collapse. Blood sprays across his shirt. He jerks back in the chair, wheezing through the mess.
“Shut up,” I snap. “No one’s going to hear you anyway.”
His breathing turns wet and ragged, but the following silence is better.
“Fuck, I love it when they start strong,” Calder says, cracking his knuckles.
He grips the man’s shoulders. “Makes the whole process more authentic. If I start with the smaller bones and work my way up, I can keep him talking for hours. It’s about finding the right rhythm, you know? Watching it all unfold.”
Behind me, Mikhail laughs. He slumps into one of the metal chairs by the wall, the chair creaking under his weight. Daniil walks in after him and drops into the next seat, pulls one leg over the other, reaches into his hoodie, and pulls out a bag of chips.
The guy opens his mouth again, voice cracking. “Please, please don’t kill me. I have a wife and kids. They need me.”
Calder frowns, genuinely disappointed. “But where’s the fun in that?” he says, tone flat. “I was just getting warmed up.”
He walks around the chair and crouches in front of the bound man, looking up at his face. Then he glances at me for permission. “Did you know if you hit a kneecap at just the right angle, it pops exactly like bubble wrap? I love that sound. So satisfying.”
I shrug. “Sounds exciting. Show us.”
I walk over to the chairs and drop into the one next to Daniil. Calder starts working. The screaming picks up fast, echoing off the concrete walls.
Daniil elbows me and holds out the bag of chips. I grab a handful and toss a few into my mouth, the crunch barely registering over the screaming.
It takes about twenty minutes before the guy completely breaks. “I’ll t-tell y-you everything,” he chokes out. “P-pplease. J-jjust s-sstop.”
Calder steps back and wipes his hands on the blood-stained apron. “Disappointing,” he mutters to himself.
I drag a chair in front of the man and sit down. He’s shaking so bad the metal rattles against the concrete floor. Blood drips down his nose, smearing across his lips in thick streaks.
“Talk,” I say, pointing at him. “But if you scream one more time, I’ll make sure you feel every single second of what comes next.”
“We …” He coughs, thick and wet, blood coming up fast. He spits it onto the floor and tries again. “W-we only knew someone was going to show up at the w-warehouse.”
He starts wheezing, coughing harder like his lungs are filling up.
“Da, I already figured that out. You’re boring me.”
He sucks in air. “Santiago Nozares has a retired detective on his payroll. He’s been watching your family for him. Said someone from the Avrorin family was going to come to that warehouse. That’s all I know, please.”
He coughs again, and more blood spatters the floor.
I look at my brothers. “A retired detective?” I blink and rub my jaw once. “This is bigger than we thought. We need to involve Father.”
I stand so fast the chair tips back and hits the floor with a clang. Mikhail stands too and walks over, staring at what’s left of the guy.
“But—”
“Grow the fuck up, Mikhail. It’s time to take this to our father. If Santiago Nozares is planning a move on our territory, then this has to be brought to the table.”
Mikhail groans and palms his face. Then he walks back and kicks the side of the chair so hard the guy tips over and smacks the concrete. He starts screaming again.
“I told you screaming would make it worse.” I bring my boot down on his face. Bone cracks under the first hit, but I don’t stop.
I do it again and again. My boot slams through cartilage, skull, skin, until it’s not recognizable as a head anymore.
Just a pulped mess spreading across the floor in red and gray chunks.
It coats the sole of my boot, splashes up the hem of my pants, soaks into the cracks in the concrete.
I keep going until there’s nothing left to break, until all I feel is soft tissue and fluid under my foot.
Most people see a dead body and feel something. Fear, disgust, horror. I see Tuesday’s problem solved. Death is just business, and I’ve been in business too long to pretend it bothers me.
There are people who get to be good. Who get second chances and clean slates. I get the weight of every life I’ve taken and the knowledge that I’ll take some more. The blood doesn’t wash off because it was always supposed to be there. It came with my last name.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and glance at Mikhail. “Call Father.”
Now, all I want is to get back to that street across from Kelly’s apartment, see if the hallway light’s on, if he’s asleep, if he’s safe. I can’t stop wanting it, needing it like oxygen.
It makes me sick how much I need to see him.