Chapter 21
Dimitri
SONG: SUFFOCATE BY KNOCKED LOOSE & POPPY
The first one died too quickly. Amateur mistake on my part.
Put the knife in wrong, nicking the femoral artery, and watched three years of Albanian mob experience bleed out in under ninety seconds.
Twenty-three years old according to his wallet.
Same age I'd been when I killed my first man.
Difference was, I'd lived long enough to regret it.
"We need the next one alive," Viktor said from the other side of the warehouse.
"Noted." I wiped the blade clean on the corpse's jacket. Prada knockoff, which somehow made his death more embarrassing. "Bring me number two."
They dragged him across concrete that hadn't been cleaned since the nineties. Older than the first one by maybe fifteen years. Scars on his knuckles told a story about bar fights and broken teeth. Good. Men who'd survived that long usually had information worth extracting.
"You shot my second," I told him. Pleasant. Conversational. Like we were discussing who'd won yesterday's game. "Three bullets. One in the shoulder, two in the chest. He's in surgery right now. Might not make it through the night."
He spat blood at my shoes. "Fuck you."
"Original." I pulled up a chair, spun it backward, sat down like we were old friends catching up. "Here's how this works. You tell me who hired you, who gave the order, who knew we'd be at that location at exactly seven forty-three p.m. In exchange, you keep all your fingers."
"Don't know shit."
"See, everyone says that initially." The knife was clean now. Good Italian steel. Ironic, considering. "Then we have a conversation, memories get jogged, details emerge. It's practically medical. A miracle of modern interrogation."
Viktor had laid out the tools on a metal table. Pliers. Blowtorch. Car battery with jumper cables attached. Nothing fancy, but everyone recognized the classics. Fear did half the work before you even touched them.
When I stood, the Albanian's eyes tracked me. Watched me walk to the table, picking up the pliers and test the grip.
"Fingers or teeth?" I asked. "Your choice. I'm democratic like that."
"Go to hell."
"Eventually." I grabbed his hand. The zip ties held when he tried to pull away. "But first, we're going to discuss who's stupid enough to start a war with the Bratva."
The first finger came off at the second knuckle.
Beautiful, raw sound echoed off concrete walls. Music to my ears when my best friend was dying in a hospital bed because some idiot with a vendetta couldn't leave well enough alone.
"Who hired you?"
"I don't—" The second finger interrupted his protest. More screaming. This time with words mixed in. Albanian curses. Prayers to God and his mother. The usual greatest hits.
"Eight fingers left," I said. "Ten toes after that. Then we start on things you'll miss more. I can do this all night."
Blood pooled on the floor. Made interesting patterns in the dim light. He was crying now, tears mixing with snot, mixing with blood from where I'd introduced his face to my fist earlier. Pathetic, but also predictable.
Also human. Had to remember that part. Someone's son sat zip-tied to this chair. Possibly someone's father. A man who'd made the catastrophically bad decision to take money for killing Russians.
It didn’t make me feel guilty, just more efficient.
"An Italian!" The words came out garbled. Wet. "It was an Italian."
Everything narrowed. Focused. "Name."
"Never met him. Swear to God. Everything went through intermediaries."
I pressed the pliers against his thumb, letting him feel cold metal. "Try harder."
"Serious! Got paid through a drop. Cash. Never saw his face. Never heard his name."
"But you know he was Italian." I released his hand and pulled out my phone instead. "How?"
"The accent…on the phone…when he called to confirm the hit."
Scrolling through my contacts, I found the recording from Giuseppe's last business meeting. His voice filled the warehouse. Warm. Grandfatherly. The sound of a man who'd perfected deception over sixty-three years.
"Did he sound like this?"
The Albanian shook his head. Blood spattered. "Younger. Angrier. Kept switching between English and Italian."
Not Giuseppe then. Someone younger with access to our schedules. Someone with enough money to hire Albanian muscle. Someone angry enough to risk starting a war.
The list was getting shorter. More interesting.
"Describe the voice."
"Thirties maybe. Cursing a lot. Kept saying..." He paused. Processing through pain. "Kept saying something about vendetta. About making them pay."
Vendetta. Of course. Because Italians couldn't just have a disagreement. Had to wrap everything in honor and blood and three centuries of tradition.
"Them," I repeated. "Not you. Not him. Them."
"Yeah. Make them pay for what they did to Marco. "
Marco.
The name landed like a grenade. Marco Benedetti. Giuseppe's nephew. Dead in a gang shooting six months ago. Killed by Armenians during a territory dispute in the Sunset District.
Except everyone knew the Armenians had been working for us. Acting on Bratva orders to clear out Italian operations. We'd never officially admitted it. Giuseppe had never officially accused us. But truth hung between our families like smoke you couldn't quite see but definitely smelled.
And now someone Italian was hiring Albanians to kill Russians as payback.
Someone who'd cared about Marco Benedetti.
I pulled up photos from Giuseppe's family gatherings. Zoomed in on the young men clustered around Marco. His crew. His friends. His blood.
"I'm going to show you some photos." My thumb scrolled through faces I'd memorized months ago. "Tell me if you recognize anyone."
His eyes scanned the screen. Stopped on one face. Younger guy. Dark hair. Sharp features. Good-looking in that dangerous way that got men killed before thirty.
"Him," the Albanian said. "Saw him once from a distance. He was watching when we scoped the location."
Geraldo Rossie.
Giuseppe's nephew. Marco's cousin. Twenty-six years old and stupid enough to start a war without permission.
I stared at the photo. Committed every detail to memory, though I'd already memorized it months ago. The stubborn set of his jaw. The anger in his eyes even at a family wedding. The way he held his shoulders like he had something to prove.
This idiot had tried to kill my people.
"Boss?" Viktor stepped closer. Lowered his voice. "What do you want us to do with him?"
Good question. The Albanian had given me everything useful. No point keeping him alive. But killing him sent a message. Not killing him sent a different message.
"Make it quick," I said. "He cooperated. That deserves something."
Viktor nodded. Professional courtesy between monsters. He pulled out his gun. The Albanian started begging but I was already walking toward the door.
The gunshot echoed behind me. Then silence.
Outside, San Francisco sparkled with lights. Beautiful in the darkness. Millions of people living normal lives with no idea what happened in warehouses like this. What had to happen to keep the balance, maintain the peace, prevent actual war from spilling into their streets.
I called Giuseppe.
He answered on the third ring. "Dimitri. It's late."
"We need to talk about your nephew."
Pause. Then, carefullyhe asked, "Which nephew?"
"Geraldo."
Longer pause. I could practically hear him thinking. Calculating. Trying to figure out how much I knew and how much damage control he needed to deploy.
"What about him?"
"He hired Albanians to kill Maxim. Almost succeeded. Three bullets. Maxim's in surgery right now. Touch and go whether he makes it through the night."
Giuseppe's breath caught. Real surprise, not fake. He hadn't known. "Dimitri, I swear—"
"I know you didn't order it," I interrupted. "But your blood did it anyway. Your nephew. Your family. Which makes it your problem."
"Where are you?"
"Doesn't matter. What matters is I have proof. Photos. Testimony. Your nephew's been planning this for weeks. Maybe months. A vendetta for Marco."
Silence on the other end. Heavy. The sound of a man processing information he didn't want to believe.
"What do you want?"
"Justice. The old-fashioned kind."
"He's my sister's son."
"And Maxim is my brother in everything but blood." I kept my voice level. Reasonable. "Your nephew put bullets in him. Tried to kidnap my sister. Started a war without permission or sanction. You know what tradition demands."
More silence. "Give me twenty-four hours."
"You have twelve."
"Dimitri—"
"Twelve hours to deliver Geraldo to me. After that, I come get him myself. And I won't be concerned about collateral damage."
I hung up before he could argue and leaned against my car. I pulled out a cigarette even though I'd quit six months ago. Lit it with hands that shook just slightly. Adrenaline leaving my system. Reality crashing back.
Maxim was dying. Someone from my wife's family had tried to kill him. Had tried to destroy everything we'd built. And I was about to demand blood from my father-in-law.
This was going to get spectacularly messy.
My phone buzzed. A text from the hospital.
Victor:Maxim out of surgery. Critical but stable.
I read it three times. Let relief wash through me in waves. He wasn't dead. Wasn't safe but wasn't dead.
Small victories in a night of horrors.
Another buzz. This one from Giulia.
Guilia: Where are you? Please tell me you're okay.
Sweet girl. Worried about me when her cousin should be terrified. When her family was about to implode. When everything we'd built together was hanging by a thread. I texted back.
Me: Fine. Coming home soon.
Lies. I was many things but fine wasn't one of them. And home felt like a place I'd left behind the moment I'd walked out angry. But I'd figure that out later.
First, I had to wait for Giuseppe's decision. See if he valued peace over blood. Alliance over family. See if my marriage could survive what was coming.
I finished the cigarette, dropping it, and ground it out under my heel like I was grinding out my last chance at normal.
The night was far from over. Tomorrow would be worse.
But at least now I had a name. A target. A focus for all this rage that had been building since the first bullet hit Maxim.
Geraldo Rossie was going to learn what happened when you came after the Bratva.
The hard way.