Grayson
“I want them out of your recently deleted folder too. let’s go, I don't have all day.”
I tower over six-foot-nothing Brenden in his dimly lit apartment as he deletes the pictures he had of my wife. He can barely see out of his right eye after making the assumption that I was just some jealous boyfriend of Rowan’s, and initially refusing to delete the pictures of her. Now I have the cold metal of my gun pressed against the back of his skull as I watch him, making sure every single photo of her is erased, permanently. Seeing the pictures Rowan took just to send them to some wannabe gangster rich boy that lives in the Detroit suburbs–it brings out anger that I can’t contain. While she wants nothing to do with me– granted I did abduct her. I can’t leave without bringing her a souvenir. I need her to know that I’ll be the only man that ever sees her like this again.
“There, that’s all of them. Can you please go now?” He says with fear etched in his tone.
“I’ve got a better idea Brenden.” I snap, dragging him to his kitchen, the size of a walk-in closet.
I press his hand to the faux granite countertop and pull out a knife from the butcher block. Before he can protest I raise the knife and in one sharp movement I cut off his pinky. I take the kitchen towel from the handle of the oven and shove it into his mouth to muffle his high pitched scream as blood spills onto his countertop.
“Thanks for deleting the pictures Brenden. I’ll be taking this for my troubles. Have a good night, chap.” I laugh, picking his pinky up off the counter and stride out.
The drive back home felt longer than it did the last time I came to Detroit. Probably because I didn’t have Rowan next to me. I laugh at the memory from two short nights ago. If we met under different circumstances, we’d actually get along well. I know it. We had a connection when we talked, before she knew who I was. If I could show her that what I was doing was justified—I can’t. I won’t even entertain the thought. Not to mention the fact that I really don’t care where her head is at. It’s time to focus on business. This personal shit has gotten in the way for two days now and that’s a record for me.
“Where are we at with Frank?” I ask Luciano as we make our way down to the bunker where we still have him chained up.
“He refuses to talk. Convinced that death by ‘Conejo’ will be a lot worse than us killing him.”
He’s probably right considering the cartel is a lot more ruthless than we are. I have no problem admitting that. The problem is that we need information from Frank and we can’t kill him until we get this situation with the cartel straightened out. Truth is we can’t even go to war with them. It’d be a bloodbath for our family if we even tried.
“So Frank, you think Conejo isn’t going to kill you already when he finds out you don’t have precious little Rowan to offer him?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He asks.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. She’s married to a kingpin now. Untouchable. So now that you have nothing to offer him, you’re useless to his organization. Unless of course, that wasn’t the only thing you were offering.” I say casually.
“ I don’t know where you’re getting this info but-”
“Cut the shit Frank.” I interrupt. “You didn’t start working with the cartel by just offering up your daughter. Especially when you know damn well we don’t fuck with that type of business or the cartel. It’s very clear that you owed Conejo something, now you’re going to start talking.”
I open up the utility closet on the opposite wall and pull out a power drill. I stride over to Frank, start the drill and inch it toward his eye.
“Alright fuck I’ll talk!”
I stop the drill and shoot a look at Luciano. “You really sat here for four hours with him and got nothing?” I scoff.
“Torture isn’t usually my game homie,” he shrugs. “Blood makes me squeamish and shit.”
It makes sense, Luciano is a getaway driver and an enforcer but it’s rare he ever has to go very far when it comes to torture .
“I want to know what business got you caught up with Conejo, or this drill goes into your eye and you’ll have a nasty infection to deal with.” I say, holding up the drill.
“I started running drugs for him two months back. He’s going to take over Chicago and make it his territory.” He informs me.
“Oh is that right?” I say with a sly smile. “And what the fuck makes him think that?”
“I don’t know, he said he knows Al. Apparently has unfinished business with him.” Frank says.
Al Santoro is my father. He’s been overseeing the organization since Luciano and I took over five years ago. Before that, he was in charge of everything.
“We’re going to have to go see Pops about this one. We’ll head back down here once we have some more info.” I say to Luciano.
Luciano and I barge into our father’s study while he sits by the fireplace, puffing on a cuban cigar .
“My boys! To what do I owe the pleasure?” He says cheerfully.
“Conejo.” I deadpan.
My father’s smile drops. “That fucker’s name hasn’t been spoken in years. What’s going on?”
“Well apparently Frank has been working with him. Guess my intel on Rowan McCarthy wasn’t ‘useless personal shit’ after all.” I say. “Says he plans to take over Chicago as his territory.”
“He said the same thing ten years ago. Then I took out half his fucking crew and he went into hiding. He’s been hiding out for the last ten years. I didn't think he’d ever pull this shit again.” My father says, his hands now shaking.
“You’re scared of him.” I say. I can see the way his demeanor has changed since I said his name.
“The fuck did you just say to me?” He seethes. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ say I’m scared. If you weren’t my son I’d stick your fuckin’ face in that fire place until you stopped moving. I’m not afraid of anyone. Set up a meeting with Conejo and get this shit handled. Bring all of your men in case shit goes down. ”
Without another word I nod to him and Luciano and I leave his office in silence. If he handled Conejo ten years ago, I have no doubt we’ll handle him again. Guys like Conejo are light work.