Chapter 24
Ivan
I squat on the cold, concrete floor, my eyes fixed on the hostage's motionless form. My sleeves are rolled up, revealing the intricate tattoos that snake up my arms, each one a mark of my life, my choices.
Vivi, for all her intelligence and toughness, doesn’t always grasp the brutal necessity of my actions. She’s no naive princess, though. Her family never shielded her from the dark realities of our world, unlike how Cassidy did with Rowan. She wasn’t ushered out when men came bearing grim news. No, she saw what happened to Angel. She survived the fire those bastards set to kill her. And what Nikolai did…she lived through that, too.
She told me he didn’t “fully” rape her, that Angel and I appeared and distracted him before he did so, but the closeness of the violence almost done to her terrifies me. I want to kill Nikolai all over again, knowing I was right there and missed her.
Her soft words to find another way play havoc on my mind, but I can’t just flip a switch. I know no other way.
The hostage’s chest is a mess of bloody, raw flesh. His fingers, crusted with dried blood, twitch in his sleep. Saliva and blood drip from his open mouth. I’ve done my worst to him, and he’s still here. His training, his conviction—they’re both incredible.
But they won’t save him.
I stand slowly, my muscles aching from the hours spent in this position. I walk over to the sleeping man, feeling a surge of anger. How can he sleep through this? Few men in this world could drift off in such a state. It’s as if he’s accepted his death. The thought infuriates me. I know I’d never give up or give in. I’d fight to the death; these men seem to accept death far too easily.
I open my knife, the blade catching the dim light. I move to the edge of the gaping wound on his chest, pinching a piece of skin between my thumb and forefinger. With a precise pull and slice, I take another piece of skin off.
His scream pierces the air, echoing off the soundproof walls. Lorenzo Valachi designed this room well. When I rebuild my home, I’ll install something like this. The man’s screams continue, and they douse any conflicting emotions I had coming down here. I will get my answers.
I look into his eyes, now wide open and filled with pain. "What is your name?" I ask, my voice steady, almost calm.
He doesn’t reply.
I grip the knife tighter, feeling the cold steel against my fingers as I lean in. “What is your name?”
“Azrael,” he rasps out, eyes defiant.
I rip another piece of skin from his chest. Another scream, more blood. The smell of it fills the room, thick and metallic. I drop the piece of flesh onto the concrete floor; it slaps like a wet cloth.
“Who are you?” I demand my patience wearing thin.
“Azrael,” he repeats, his voice weaker but still unyielding.
I tear another strip of flesh, and his scream bounces off the soundproofed walls again. The urge to end this, to plunge the knife into his chest and be done with it, is nearly overwhelming. But I can’t. This is our only chance to get information about the enemy. And all this bastard gives me is “Azrael,” something we already know.
Frustrated, I shake out my hand, blood splattering up the wall. He stares ahead, unseeing, uncaring. His acceptance of his fate only fuels my anger. My fingers tighten around the blade, and the thought of plunging it into his chest is almost consuming.
A knock at the door gives me pause. I don’t get up but glance over my shoulder as Damon walks in, Luca following close behind.
“Did you get it?” I ask, not bothering to hide my impatience.
Luca nods, holding up a file. “I had to spend a considerable amount of money to rush the lab, but yes.”
I glance at the man, then back at Luca. This is the key we require to unlock the answers we need. Satisfaction roars through me. “Lucky for him. I was about to rip off his fucking nipple.”
Damon chuckles, taking the file from Luca and holding it out to me. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“Gladly,” I say, rising and dragging a chair from the wall and positioning it in front of the man. I sit down, the chair creaking under my weight. When I open the file, some of his blood smears onto the pages.
“You had no ID,” I begin, my voice calm and measured. “Which is the usual situation when we drop one of you. But there are certain things that no one can hide, not in this day and age.”
I flip through the pages, each one a piece of the puzzle. The man watches me, his breathing ragged, his eyes glassy with pain. I see his defiance waver, replaced by a flicker of fear. He knows we may have found something, but what that something is, he is unsure about. I don’t know yet, but I keep reading.
"Nothing with fingerprints," I mutter, flipping to the next page. "Obviously, you stayed out of trouble before becoming the dick you are now."
Azrael, as he insists on calling himself, remains silent, his gaze unwavering. I continue, my voice steady. "Your DNA was a long shot. Only 31 states currently collect DNA for use in prosecution, and since you have no record with fingerprints, it was doubtful we’d get anything with your DNA."
He smiles, his confidence in the belief that we may have found nothing growing. His lips stretch over his teeth, a gruesome image with teeth missing and gums bleeding. It's like something out of a horror movie. As I read on, I know I’ll take immense pleasure in wiping that smile right off his fucking face.
"But," I say, leaning forward, "you have a niece who gave her DNA to one of those genetic ancestry sites. Now, this is curious. According to state records, she doesn’t have a paternal uncle. Until Luca’s friends did some digging. Rebecca, apparently, did have a paternal uncle, but his records were hidden. His name is Hugh. Hugh Meyer."
His eyes widen, darting from me to Luca to Damon and then back to me. Oh, satisfaction. This is right on the money. This is all we need to try and break him.
"Are you that man, Hugh?" I ask, my voice a cold whisper.
"I am Azrael," he insists, but his voice wavers.
"No, you are Hugh Meyer, uncle to Rebecca Meyer, who is in her second year of college. She’s a very good student, my friend. It’s a shame that the world will lose her because her uncle decided to fuck around with the Five Families."
"I am Azrael," he repeats, but now there’s fear in his eyes. His voice isn't as strong. He’s stumbling, grasping at the persona he's created.
I stare at Hugh, watching as his breathing grows heavier with each passing moment. "We have a friend in California, Hugh. He's in the same line of work as us. You may have heard of him. Sal? Now, I know the Commission members use Azrael as their personal police force, but I also know that no Don likes having a faceless threat around. Sal will help us find Rebecca."
Hugh’s eyes widen in panic. He struggles against his ropes, but they hold firm. I lean back in my chair and kick forward, sending Hugh’s chair tipping over backward. I stand over him, looking down at his twisted form.
"Who do you take orders from, Hugh?" I ask, my voice hard.
"I am Azrael," he insists, but there's a tremor in his voice now.
"You are not Azrael. You are Hugh Meyer, and your niece, Rebecca, will be put into a shipping container and dropped into the fucking sea if you don’t start talking now. You are too organized, too trained to just be a bunch of fucks doing a job. Who do you take orders from?" I demand, leaning in closer.
"They were supposed to protect my name," he mutters, his voice barely audible.
"Grow the fuck up, Hugh. No one can protect anyone in this world. You should know that by now. They don’t give a fuck about you. You are captured, and they are relying on you being a fucking parrot instead of doing anything to save you. Now, who do you take orders from?"
Hugh’s facade cracks. "There are people above me," he admits, his voice shaky.
"I want to know who is above them." I press, leaning in closer. Hugh struggles against his bindings; his face contorted with the internal battle raging within him. I watch as his resolve weakens, the truth clawing its way to the surface. Fresh blood oozes from his wounds, and I hope he doesn’t bleed out before I get my answers.
"Waylon Vigneault," he finally whispers, his voice barely audible.
The Commissioner? "You lie," I snap, my eyes boring into his.
"Not this time," he insists, his eyes meeting mine with a desperate sincerity. I see it. He’s telling the truth. “It’s Vigneault. I don’t know how; I don’t know why—”
"Marzano. Out!" I bark, straightening up and gesturing for Damon to take Hugh away. I follow Luca into the hallway, my mind racing.
"Luca," I begin, but before I can say more, he tries to explain.
"Look, Romanov, I didn’t know that—"
My rage boils over, and I grab Luca by the shirt, slamming him against the wall. A picture frame falls to the floor and shatters, the sound echoing through the hallway.
"Get the fuck off of me, Romanov!" Luca yells, his face flushed with anger. "You have no idea what you are doing."
"Because you are fucking Untouchable?!" I hiss, my grip tightening. "Who is stopping me from touching you now?!"
The door behind us opens, and Damon rushes into the hallway, shoving his way between us. Luca swings at me, and I barely manage to block it. Damon forces us apart, pushing us against opposite walls. I rub my jaw and grin at Luca.
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
“Calm the fuck down. Both of you,” Damon growls, his voice a command that cuts through the tension.
“We lost so many people, and this whole time, it was his little buddy doing it,” I snap, my eyes still locked on Luca. I want to kill him.
“Azrael is a secret organization; it’s not like Waylon would tell me that he was heading it,” Luca retorts, his voice edged with frustration.
“It all makes sense now,” I say, my mind racing with the pieces falling into place. “The license plates that lead nowhere. The public files that disappear. The fact that none of these murders are making the papers. It’s a giant cover-up. You haven’t infiltrated the police, Marzano; they have infiltrated us.”
Damon steps between us again, his hands up to keep us apart. “We know our enemy now. That is more information than we knew this morning. It’s not an ideal situation, but now we can make a plan.”
“Hopefully, the plan will go better than the greenhouse,” Luca mutters, his eyes still burning with anger.
Fuck him.
I lunge at him, wanting my pound of flesh. Luca sees my movement and lunges, too, but Damon shoves us back with more force. “I fucking mean it. Stop.”
We glare at each other, breathing heavily, both looking for any sign of weakness. Slowly, the rage subsides, replaced by a grim resignation. I don’t believe Luca betrayed us. He seems genuinely shocked at the name that spilled from Hugh’s mouth.
“So, what do we do with Hugh?” Luca asks, his voice calmer but still tense. I clench my fists and take a step back.
“Kill and dispose,” Damon says without hesitation, his tone cold and final.
"No."
Damon and Luca turn to look at me, confusion etched on their faces. Vivi’s words echo in my mind. She had begged me to find another way, to lead the mafia in a new direction. This was going to be our world; we didn’t have to play by the rules of the old one. We didn’t always have to be monsters.
"Clean him up, and we will release him after this is all over," I say firmly.
"Release him? An assassin?" Luca’s incredulous tone cuts through the silence.
"We just took off his mask; he isn’t Azrael anymore," I explain, my voice steady. "They’ll be looking for him. We also took off Waylon’s mask. This isn’t another mafia fight. A police commissioner has practically an army at his disposal."
Damon and Luca exchange glances, the weight of my words sinking in. This isn’t just about us anymore. It’s about the bigger picture, about changing the way we operate.