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"A call girl?" Anton laughs gruffly. "Surely a ball-less pig like you must resort to throwing money at whores for attention."
I blink, wondering if we’ve somehow caused brain damage. It’s not even a good insult, or a good joke. Even if it wasn’t a pathetic attempt at riling me up, I’ve gotten fairly adept at controlling my temper. It takes a good bit of damage to get under my skin, and that kind of damage doesn't come from insulting me. That’s one key difference between myself and my father. I can take the hits just as well as I can dish them out.
"Did you call me and threaten my sister?"
"Your sister?" Anton laughs again. "You think I have any interest in that spoiled bitch?"
I turn my back on Anton again, confident that he isn't going anywhere. He poses no threat in my domain. Here, he is whatever I say he is. Here, he is nothing.
I assess the small armory that Jovich has laid out for me, my eyes trailing carefully over the weapons.
Brass knuckles, a pistol, knives and scalpels, a dirty cloth and a five-gallon jug of water I could pour over his face with a cloth over his mouth to make him feel like he’s drowning. A car battery sits on the ground between his legs, the cables clamped on top as an electric hum emanates from them. Jovich is my most fierce employee, but he’s always a little too eager to jump to torture, which is why I suspect he got along with my father so well. The two of them probably bonded over the deviant joy they got out of seeking revenge.
I don't enjoy it. Like everything else I do, it’s simply a means to an end. But it doesn't hurt to keep up appearances.
"You may want to mind your tongue." I turn back to face him, dragging a finger over the edge of a large, curved blade. "If you have nothing useful to say, I might consider cutting it out."
"Fuck off!" Anton growls.
"Hmm." I muse. "Not useful."
I gauge Anton's reaction, but when the man offers me nothing, I lunge at him. The knife bites into his throat in the next second.
Anton strains against the chair, but I press him further into it so that he sits trapped between the stiff wood and the shiny tip of the wicked blade. My experience with the Russians has proven that they are anything but weak; They don't often relent. And as Anton looks back at me, mirroring my abject hatred of him, it’s apparent that he doesn't think I’ll follow through on my threat.
I’ve gotten far on my enemies underestimating me. "Who killed my father?"
Anton stares defiance at me, his black eyes seething.
"Alright." I concede. "Tell you what? You tell me who killed my father or who threatened my sister. I'll accept an answer for either. And if you give me something useful, I'll call my guy right now and tell him to go home for the night. I'm sure he'd be thrilled not to have to watch another minute of children chasing around a football."
The shift is almost imperceptible. Despite his foul temper, Anton is a master poker player. He made a good chunk of his money, swindling anyone who would sit down long enough to get hustled by him. But I notice how his shoulders stiffen, and his chest swells with a breath he’s straining to control. "What are you saying?"
"Katya has football on Fridays, remember? If the team wins, they'll celebrate at that little café with the kettle on the sign. I'd butcher the pronunciation,” I laugh. “but loosely translated, I think it means… the Copper Kettle?"
Terror is a funny look on him, but mostly because it means he does have a heart. Even the toughest man is only as strong as his weakness, and his is a six-year old with straight black hair and two missing front teeth.
"You're bluffing."
"No." I shake my head. "I've done my research. My team provides me with very thorough reports. Katya's favorite ice cream... it's pistachio, right?" I laugh again, shaking my head. "What kid likes pistachio ice cream?"
If it’s possible, Anton pales even more. I can practically see the wheels in his mind turning. He’s wondering what the chances are that I would know all of that if I don't have somebody tailing his niece?
"You don't look convinced." I furrow my brow at him, mimicking the look of disbelief on his face. "I can have Michael snap a picture of them if you want. I mean, if he can take his hands off Irina long enough. He has said she is quite the insatiable lover.” I give him a minute to let the thought of another man touching his sister-in-law take root. He’s probably already seeing another hand trace her curves, imagining another man doing the things he’s done, erasing him from her mind with every stroke. “But you know all about that, don't you?"
"I'll kill you." He growls, rocking the chair so hard that it grates against the floor. I had hoped not to have to go this route, to avoid bringing innocents into his mess, but if this is the only way to make him sing, then the show must go on.
"You'll never have the chance. Your poor Irina. First, she loses her husband, and now she'll either have to watch her kid die or hear that her new lover—her brother-in-law—is dead too. So much loss for someone so young. But don't worry. Michael is taking very good care of her... and your daughter."
A vein throbs in Anton's now-translucent skin. Sweat that was beading on his forehead now rolls down his cheeks. He looks like he’ll be sick. "I don't know about the call." He says. "I don't go after women or children, Boudreaux. Only cowards do."
"A hitman with morals?" I laugh. "Sure. Keep talking."
"And I don't know who killed your father, but I can tell you this. He was in massive debt. Like, all of your houses and cars and private jets combined kind of debt."
"And?"
"Alexei Nyanik. He holds your father's debt. If anyone had motive to kill the bastard, it's Nyanik."
