Chapter 9 - Alik
ALIK
“That’s not good enough. I want names. Locations. Details.”
Rocco shakes on the table, the rank smell of his sweat mixing with the piss soaking his underwear. We’re trying a new position today. His arms are bound underneath the table, his waist and legs held flat to the surface by multiple straps.
The hint of barbecue is coming from the burnt soles of his feet. It turns out his blood pressure is higher than it should be, and he bled a little too much after my last visit. I need him alive until he’s answered all my questions, so I’m taking a less invasive approach.
Today we’re having a trial by fire.
The closer I put the blowtorch to the blackened skin of his feet, the louder the Italian screams. “You can make it stop, Rocco. All you have to do is give me the information I want.”
Pagano gifts me with a parade of curses, working himself into a lather.
Spittle flies from his mouth, drips down his swollen face.
“When are you going to get it through that ugly fucking head—I don’t know where Rina went after the auction.
The only thing I know for sure is that she sold fast and at a crazy high price.
That’s all the intel I’ve got, I swear.”
I mask my frustration with a glib shrug. “Fine. Your call. Let’s see how long it takes to burn down to the bone, da?”
“No, no! Fuck, no. Stop! Th-th-there is something.”
I stop the white-hot flame just inches from his right foot. Not close enough to burn but definitely to blister. “Talk.”
“The woman—”
Rocco screams as I engulf one toe in fire. “Rina. Her name is Rina.”
“Yes,” he pants, tears cutting down florid cheeks. “Of course. Rina. There were rumors before the auction that someone had shown particular interest in her. Repeatedly. She—Rina—fit his type. Young, fair-haired, blue eyes.”
I grind my molars together, refusing to let Rocco’s words form a picture in my head. “That doesn’t sound like a unique description.”
“Virgin,” he spits out. “Rina was also a virgin.”
She was, at least at the time she was taken. But Rina never would’ve told him that. Not in a million years. Which means they must’ve checked. Rocco doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just earned himself a few more days in hell before I end his pathetic existence.
“And she was so fucking feisty. All teeth and claws, that bitch. Like my ugly cunt of a niece, but actually attractive. I’ve never enjoyed provoking a sweet piece of ass so mu—oomph.”
I crack him on the head, temporarily silencing him. The more he talks about Rina, the harder it becomes to not just kill the fucker. Or, at minimum, rip his tongue from his mouth.
You can’t, the saner part of my brain reminds. You still don’t know enough. You don’t know how to find her.
After a few seconds of the blowtorch incinerating his toes, Rocco Pagano gains consciousness with a howl. I leave the flame where it is for another three, four seconds, before giving the miserable shit time to catch his breath.
“Who was it, asshole? Who wanted her?”
“That fucking Albanian. Shkodra,” he forces out between bloodied lips. “Burim Shkodra.”
“I want an introduction.”
“Fat fucking chance.” Rocco twists his mangled mouth into a disgusting smirk. “The man is a ghost. Un-fucking-traceable. The he-calls-you type, never the other way around.”
I press the open flame directly against Rocco’s skin.
He starts to convulse in pain, the smell of cooking flesh filling Cosenza’s abandoned restaurant.
Rocco’s barely conscious when I click the blowtorch off.
“No one is untraceable. Especially not someone who likes to buy virgins to use as personal fuck toys. You have a think, Rocco, and when I come back, I hope you have some ideas of how I can meet this Shkodra.”
Pagano has gone nearly cross-eyed with pain, but the fucker still tries to lob a wad of spit at me. It doesn’t come close to hitting his target, but that doesn’t stop me from slamming a fist into his nuts. Rocco blacks out on impact, his body calling it quits on our little conversation.
“Fuck you, Rocco Pagano,” I whisper in his ear. “I’ll be back soon.”
As soon as I step outside, I take my first deep breath in hours. After this session with Pagano, I should feel somewhat sated. Mildly satisfied, at minimum. I’m making actual progress and he’s experiencing excruciating pain. A win-win.
But instead of leaving the warehouse feeling relaxed, I’m beyond strung out, my blood crackling in my veins like electricity through live wires.
None of my regular decompression outlets are working. Drinking. Speeding. Jacking off. Slowly stripping someone of their will to live. I’m far too restless—reckless—after each and every one.
I rev the throttle on my motorcycle, turning too hard, taking a city corner too fast. The rubber burns, the wheels screeching on asphalt as the machine temporarily loses grip on the road.
I squeeze the throbbing metal between my thighs, somehow keep the beast upright, and wait for the surge of relief that should come after a near miss.
The instinctive warning to not push so hard next time.
But if my brain is trying to tell me anything, the message is lost to the unrelenting anticipation that’s building and building and building the closer I get to my apartment.
It’s been five nights since I last saw Marya.
She’s there, in her room. Dr. Ruiz has confirmed it, seeing her patient once a day now.
The tray of doctor-approved food I leave outside the door gets returned, plates empty.
The computer and books I left the morning after her escape attempt were gone within hours.
Two nights ago, I even heard what sounded like her laughing at something on the TV.
She’s there, confined to what used to be my bedroom, the fallen mafia princess locked in a makeshift prison.
But knowing she’s there hasn’t stopped me from lingering outside her door like a creep just to catch a hint of noise. Or asking too many questions of the doctor after she’s finished an exam.
I told Marya to stay in that room. Ordered it. To prevent her from interfering with my business. From distracting me from the mission at hand. How was I supposed to know that by banishing her from sight, my need to see her would shoot through the fucking roof?
I take the final turn into the parking garage at top speed, leaving skid marks on the asphalt as I race down the ramp to my parking space.
I’ve managed to lay low in this city for months, to work my way into the Pagano organization through the brutality and skill I’ve honed over decades, to finally pry information from Rocco that I’ve been trying to get my hands on for ages.
I’m as close as I’ve ever been to figuring out where Rina is and instead of my focus being locked on the one place it should, my brain is agonizingly split between the woman I’m trying to find and the one I’ve decided to keep captive in my own house.
It’d be laughable if it wasn’t turning into a colossal fucking problem.
I pause outside my apartment door, listening for any signs of life on the other side. Any kind of tip-off that Marya might be lurking in the hallway, waiting to brain me again. Once I’m sure I’m in the clear, I go in.
All is quiet, and everything feels all wrong.
Several steps in I smell blood.
You’d think I’d be nose-blind to it by this stage of my life, but the metallic tang sets off mental alarm bells before I’ve had a chance to close the door.
Gun drawn, I move down the dark hallway on high alert, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention when I see the door to Marya’s room is wide open.
Moving fast, I check the bedroom and bathroom. Both clear. So is the kitchen. But when I step into the main open space the smell of blood is stronger.
I find signs of a struggle in the living room. A side table toppled over, stains on the carpet so dark I can see them in the ambient light from the windows.
Someone’s been here. Someone’s taken Marya, hurt her.
The fury doesn’t creep up on me. It explodes like a supernova, blinding and destructive. Someone has dared come here and hurt her and I’m going to annihilate them.
My brain and body go on autopilot. I stalk through the apartment, weapon ready, following the trail of blood. It leads away from the front door. Which means Marya and the intruder are still here.
I’m almost to the windows when I see it. A kitchen knife, bloodied from tip to handle. The smell of blood is stronger, too. I can taste the tang in the air, sweat starting to slide down my spine.
Fuck. It’s too much blood. Marya has only just started healing. She won’t survive losing a lot of blood.
A sound from outside grabs my attention. A rattle of glass, metal knocking against metal. The door to the balcony isn’t latched.
For one awful second my stomach free falls. They could’ve grabbed Marya and thrown her over the railing. She’s a fighter, moya voitelnitsa, but even she wouldn’t be able to stop someone from manhandling her over the edge if they really wanted her dead. She’s still too weak for that.
Gun raised, trigger finger ready, I toe open the door.
It swings silently. Snowflakes blow in on a frigid gust of wind.
The balcony wraps around the side of the building like an L, accessible from both the living space and the bedroom.
The pavers are dusted with snow, the furniture covered for the winter.
City lights bounce off the glass, refracted over and over again.
I can’t hear any sirens. Don’t see any flashing lights at street level. This is the type of neighborhood where if a woman was lying dead or broken on the street the police would be here in minutes. The lack of both gives me hope she’s still out here.