Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Basili
“Boss,” Omero knocks on the wall just inside my office doorway, drawing my attention. “He’s here.”
A feral grin takes over my face as I rise from my chair, the paperwork I’d been working on suddenly forgotten. I move through the house with determination, heading outside, Omero close on my heels.
“Make sure Raffaello keeps Chloe and Emmanuel away from this part of the property. I don’t want them anywhere near the shed.”
“Already done. Raffaello’s got them in the garden.”
Good. That’s good.
I can compartmentalize this. Keep the violence separate from the life I’m trying to build with my son. From whatever the hell is developing between Chloe and me.
She doesn’t need to know about this side of me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The shed sits at the far edge of the property, hidden behind a grove of trees that provide both privacy and sound dampening. Most people don’t even know it exists. Those who do know better than to come anywhere near it unless summoned.
It’s a simple structure from the outside — weathered wood, a pitched roof, nothing that would draw more attention than necessary. But inside, it’s been designed for one purpose alone: extracting information from people who don’t want to give it.
Soundproof walls, a drain in the center of the floor, hooks embedded in the ceiling beams, and a workbench along one wall with various tools laid out in neat rows.
And in the center of the room, tied to a chair with his hand bound to the arms, is Dimitri Volkov.
He’s exactly what the intel described: tall, lean but muscular with tattoos and scars littering every inch of him.
Bald head gleaming under the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Thick beard that can’t quite hide the cruel set of his mouth.
He sneers at me as I enter, and I see teeth that are crooked and yellowed from too many fists to the face.
“Dimitri,” I say pleasantly, pulling off my suit jacket and draping it over the back of a folding chair. “Thank you for joining us. I hope my men weren’t too rough with you on the ride over.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, his accent thick, harsh Russian. “You have no right to drag me here.”
“No right?” I roll up my sleeves methodically, taking my time. “You drove the car that was used to kidnap my son. I’d say that gives me every right.”
His eyes flicker with fear for the briefest of moments, but he covers it with bravado. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” I flip the folding chair to sit across from him, pull out my phone, and swipe to the photo that had been sent to me two nights ago.
The intel that had pulled me from that goddamn awkward dinner, from Emmanuel and Chloe.
“Because this is your car, isn’t it? Black Audi, license plate 4XR-7829.
And this —” I swipe again. “— is surveillance footage from the street where my son was taken. Same car. Your car.”
He doesn’t bother to look at the screen as I shove it in his face, his eyes full of fury as he continues to stare me down over the phone.
“Prove it.”
“Oh, I can do better than that.” I pocket the phone and stand, moving to the table, picking up two pairs of brass knuckles, slipping one on each hand. “I can prove you were driving it. The traffic cameras caught your face clear as day. You even looked straight at one of them. Cocky bastard.”
His sneer falters as I turn back to face him.
“So, here’s how this is going to work.” I flex my fingers over the brass knuckles as I stare down at him. “You’re going to tell me who hired you. Where you took my son. And why they wanted him. Tell me those things, and maybe you’ll walk out of here on your own two feet.
He continues to glare at me, giving me nothing.
“Don’t —” I raise my hand, examining the metallic shine of the brass knuckles as I roll my hand into a fist, striking out like a viper across Dimitri’s right cheek before finishing, “— and I make no promises.”
He spits out blood as his head rolls to the side, laughing as he recovers quicker than I’d anticipated. “I’ll give you nothing, Cierro.”
“Then you’re going to be here for a very long time.”
Omero steps forward from where he’s been standing against the wall, his massive frame blocking out the doorway. On either side of him, two of my other men — Marco and Gio — watch with cold professional detachment. This isn’t their first interrogation.
“Want me to handle this one?” Omero asks.
I consider it for the briefest of moments. Omero’s efficient. Brutal when necessary. His ability to control his emotions better than mine on the worst of days.
But this is personal.
“No. This one’s mine.”
The second punch lands square on the left side of his jaw, snapping his head to the right. The brass knuckles split open his lip, blood dribbling down his beard.
He spits red onto the concrete and laughs again. “That all you got? My babushka hits harder than that.”
The next hit breaks his nose. I feel the cartilage crunch under my hand and watch the blood pour from his nasal cavity. He howls, jerking against his restraints, anger outriding the pain.
“Who hired you?” I ask calmly.
“Fuck. You.”
“No thanks, you’re not my type.”
The next punch is straight to his ribs. Not hard enough to break them — yet — but hard enough to make breathing painful. He wheezes, doubling over in the chair.
I squat down, getting face-to-face with him once more. “Who. Hired. You.”
“I don’t —” Wheeze. “— know what —” Gasp. “— you’re talking about.”
Taking a deep breath, I contemplate the situation at hand, studying him. This isn’t working. He’s too seasoned, too well-trained to break from a simple beating. He’ll let me hit him until he’s passed out before giving me anything.
I need to come at this from a different angle.
“Omero, untie him.” It’s a command.
“Boss?”
“You heard me. Untie him.”
I stand and move back as Omero moves forward, slicing through the binds with his knife with quick efficiency. Dimitri slumps forward, catching himself halfway to his knees, hands braced on the concrete floor.
“Giving up already?” He rasps out.
“Here’s the deal, Dimitri,” I say, pulling off one set of brass knuckles and tossing them to the floor in front of him. “I’m not going to beat a helpless man. That’s not how I do business. So I’m going to give you a choice.”
He looks at me, curiosity in his eyes. “And what’s that?”
“Pick up those knuckles, get up off the ground, and fight me fair, one on one. If you win, you walk out of here. Free. But if I win, you tell me everything you know.”
He grabs the brass knuckles and pushes himself to his feet, swaying as he slips them onto his hand in one practiced motion. Calculating. He’s got height on me, longer arms. He’s younger. But I guarantee I’m a better fighter.
“You got a deal,” he spits.
He comes at me fast — faster than I expected. His fist connects with my cheekbone, snapping my head to the side, pain radiating across my face.
Good. I needed that. Proper motivation.
I dodge his next swing, stepping inside his guard as I do so, and drive my fist into his ribs again. He grunts, stumbles, strikes out, and meets air as I duck. I press forward with a jab to his solar plexus, then serve an uppercut to his chin.
“Who hired you?” I ask again, less calmly this time. Circling him as he shakes his head, trying to recover from the last blow.
“Go to hell.”
He tries to tackle me. Coming at me like a charging bull, I sidestep, grabbing his arm and using his own motion to send him crashing into the wall. The impact is wet, with an audible crunch.
When he turns, his forehead is split open, bleeding. The rage on his face and in his body obvious.
“Typical coward.”
“Having skill isn’t cowardice. It’s a strategy,” I reply coldly. “Last chance. Tell me what you know.”
“I’m dead either way.”
“Maybe. But I guarantee if you don’t, what comes next will be worse than death.”
He rushes me again, desperate. I block his wild swing, grab his wrist, and twist. The sound of his shoulder giving is distinct — a pop followed by his scream. Then he goes down on one knee, cradling his arm.
“The car,” I say, standing over him. “Who paid you for the car?”
“I don’t —”
I kick him in the ribs. The ones I’ve already damaged. But he starts laughing, a gurgling husk of a laugh as he looks up at me.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” He spits out more blood. “You think you're so fucking powerful. The great Basili Cierro. The master of control. You’re not so untouchable, you know?”
“Talk,” I growl. “Now.”
“But you can’t protect anyone, can you?” His smile widens, vicious. “Not your wife. Not your son. We took him right from under your nose, and you didn’t even know for hours.”
My vision starts to narrow, red creeping in at the edges.
“And now?” He laughs again, the sound making my hands curl into fists again. “Now we’re watching the girl. The pretty little thing you’ve brought into your home. What do you think we’ll do to her when we get a hold of her, Don Cierro? When we take her just like we took your son?”
Something inside me snaps. I’m on him before I realize I’ve moved. My fist connects with his face once, twice, three times. I feel teeth break under my knuckles, feel his cheekbone give. Blood sprays across my shirt, my hands, the floor.
“Don’t even think about touching her.” The words tear from my throat, raw and savage.
I haul him up by his shirt, slamming him against the wall. Pulling him away just enough to slam him into it again.
“Boss!” Omero’s there in an instant, pulling at me. “Boss, stop! You’re gonna kill him! We still need information, remember.”
I don’t care. In the red haze, I want to kill him. I want to rip him apart limb by limb. Shrugging Omero off, I serve another punch, his orbital bone giving way under my fist.
Marcus and Gio move forward, each grabbing at my arms to pull me off of Dimitri.
“The car, Dimitri. This is your last chance,” Omero demands. “Tell us what you know, or he really will beat you to death.”