17. Marco
Marco
With Luca’s help, I finally manage to track down the man responsible for killing Anita, the dancer from Bounce, with the Desert Tech rifle. Luca and I picked him up outside a twenty-four hour diner last night, and now he sits tied to a chair inside one of our black sites.
The black site itself is located inside an abandoned textile building in the Garment District. The old equipment remains, covered in dust and rusting away like massive iron beasts left to fester in the dark.
Dragging over a stool, I perch next to our captive and take a drag from my cigarette.
The guy eyes me dubiously. Anatoly is in his late forties and built like a brick wall with wide, square shoulders and a squat frame.
His black hair, which he wears in a loose topknot, has silver streaks on both sides of his head, right above his ears.
Tattoos cover every inch of skin from the neck down. A scar slashes through his right brow, emphasizing the sharpness of his blue eyes. His attention drifts to my cigarette, and I hold the end to his mouth so that he can puff.
He exhales, his eyes darting between me and where Luca hovers in the corner of the room, partially hidden by shadow. “What now? You torture me? Break my kneecaps or some shit?”
Dante and Giovanni would absolutely torture him for information.
Though I’m not opposed to that tactic, I’ve found other ways to extract information.
Not for the first time, I wonder how my brother’s doing.
Is he happy? If or when I talk to him again, I’d ask him if the outcome was worth all the suffering.
If Sara was worth giving up everything for.
For his sake, I hope so, because if they value their lives, they can’t ever return.
The only family I have left…gone…just like that.
I ignore the wave of sadness threatening to derail my train of thought. “That depends on you.”
I don’t know how long I work on the guy.
An hour? Two? I get him a drink and share a bit about myself and how I just took over my family’s operation.
About Anita and my search for the man behind the gun.
Most people don’t realize that charming someone hinges on relating to them, and the best way to do that is often just by telling the truth.
Or at least some version of it.
“So he just left you?” Anatoly whistles. “What an asshole. If my brother did that to me, I’d kick his ass.”
I stub out my cigarette on the bottom of my shoe, toss the butt, and light up another. Anatoly gets the first puff. “That’s kind of hard to do when he’s still technically missing.”
“Damn.” Anatoly scowls. “Look, I wish I could help, but I’ve got my own people to worry about.”
I cock my head to one side, my interest piqued. “People?”
He doesn’t respond, but I don’t really need him to.
Based on some of his tattoos, I can guess that he’s Bratva.
I’ve met enough members of the Russian mafia while out drinking to recognize some of their symbols.
My guess is that Anatoly is an avtoritet, the Russian equivalent of a capo or general.
He must be fairly high-ranking if the number of people I’ve seen reporting to him during my recon over the last several days is anything to go by.
I shrug as if dismissing his words and fish out a second cigarette just for him.
After I light it, Anatoly leans back in his seat, his arms still cuffed at his back.
His legs spread far as he settles in, and he angles his chin as if chatting with his kidnapper is the most natural thing in the world.
Resting my elbows on my knees, I clasp my hands and study him. “Look, I don’t give a shit about the dancer. I just need to know where you got the gun.”
Anatoly shifts the cigarette in his mouth, puffing and blowing smoke almost simultaneously. Finally, he grunts. “The gun is gone. Your Council lent it to me to kill the woman, and I returned it once I finished the job.”
The Council? Since when did they start working with the Russian mafia? I school my features, but inside my mind races. “Why’d they want her dead?”
“She was skimming money from their profits at the club.” Anatoly hums thoughtfully. “They probably hired me because I saw her often and she trusted me.” A flash of regret crosses his face but vanishes quickly.
“Was there anything strange about the job? Did anyone on the Council contact you directly?”
Anatoly shakes his head. “I only spoke with their dogs. And nothing comes to mind off the top of my head, sorry.”
Fuck. If the Council is involved, I’ll need to go through the Library to determine who last used the gun.
The Council has dirt on nearly every organization in the country, and the Library is where they’ve archived every piece of evidence.
If I want to know who the Council is blackmailing in this particular situation, I’ll need access to the place.
Which won’t be easy given that except in special instances, only Councilors are allowed inside.
Dammit.
I leave Anatoly to Luca, with strict instructions to return him to where we found him and go home.
The house is eerily quiet when I walk in, and my shoulders sag with a mixture of relief and disappointment.
For the last few days, I’ve thrown myself into the hunt for the man who killed the dancer so I could get my questions answered.
I told myself that I needed to focus on uncovering the truth about the SilverTech shooting, but honestly, I’ve been avoiding Bianca like the plague since the Canary Club.
I have no idea where the hell things are headed between us, but regardless, it seems too fast. I don’t even know how to approach her unless we’re battling it out.
A bizarre sensation comes over me whenever I’m with her. I want her under my control so completely that her anger, her happiness, her grief belong solely to me. Seeing her trudging toward the bathroom after the confrontation with Nicola, so beaten and worn down, made me realize something.
I don’t want anyone else to know that part of her. That strangely naked version of the princess, that vulnerability, that softness, is all mine, and to my horror, I crave more.
On my way up the stairs to my room, I pass by the makeshift gym I’ve thrown together in the short time I’ve lived in Gio’s house. Through the gap in the door, I spot Bianca stretching in front of the mirror.
She reaches down to touch her toes, and I admire the shape of her ass in her little purple yoga shorts when she plants her palms on the ground and lifts her legs up and over her head. Her strength is impressive, I’ll give her that. I think she’d make a hell of a boxer.
I wonder what other strengths she conceals from the world.
Wearing headphones and mouthing lyrics, she transitions her body from the handstand and into a series of graceful acrobatics.
Each movement appears so precise and effortless that she might as well be composed of water.
This is who she is when no one’s watching, and I can’t help but believe I’ve stumbled onto a valuable secret.
I memorize the rhythm of her breath, and the pieces of a much larger board begin to click into place.
I haven’t just underestimated Bianca. I’ve miscalculated her utility. Every crack in her facade, every hidden layer of strength she keeps buried from the syndicate, is an asset. She isn’t just a complication to avoid.
She might actually be the key to helping me uncover the truth about Gio and Dante.