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I won’t kill him.
I’ll just make him wish he was dead.
One hour and forty-eight minutes after getting Deirdre home after her classes, Curse and I have Brian tied up in the trunk of Curse’s SUV. We’re heading north, back up to one of our warehouses on the outskirts of Thunder Bay. Usually, I’d fly there. But the fifteen-hour drive is good. Gives me all the time in the world to think about exactly what I’m going to do to him. Normally, I don’t go this far from Toronto just to make some asshole regret everything he’s ever done, but I can’t stomach the idea of him in the same city as my Songbird for one second longer.
Curse and I take turns driving. The drive takes longer than fifteen hours because of the snow on the roads. We don’t pull up to the desolate, snow-covered warehouse until 7am. It’s still pitch black out – no sun. No light at all except for one streetlight illuminating the snowy parking lot we pull into. Besides our vehicle, there’s only one other – an old pickup truck. Its owner, Aleksej, is waiting for us, just like I told him to be when we set out from Toronto. Aleksej is one of the only guys working this closely with me who’s not a made man. He’s not Sicilian, but Serbian, and he’s as solid as they fucking come. Works like a dog and, most importantly, he keeps his mouth shut. He and his father ran into problems with the Serbian mafia and relocated here years ago, and Aleksej’s worked for me ever since.
Curse and I get out of the vehicle as Aleksej approaches. I head for the back of the car, opening the trunk and hauling Brian out. Curse sedated him, and he’s still too out of it to stand or walk. I let him drop to the cold hard ground, then grab the back of his jacket and start dragging him. Aleksej walks ahead and unlocks the metal door of the warehouse, holding it open, his grey eyes looking back out towards the parking lot to make sure no one’s followed. Once we’re all inside, the metal door closes behind us with a final, brutal clang.
“Strip him down and get him in the chair.”
Curse and Aleksej do it, peeling off Brian’s jacket and everything else until he’s slouched over naked in a plastic chair in the centre of the darkened warehouse. His wrists are tied to the arms of the chair, his ankles tied at the bottom, and at the last moment Curse ties his shoulders to the back of the chair, too. He’s barely conscious, and without being tied upright he’d keep flopping over.
Once he’s done tying Brian up, Curse cracks his knuckles. I know he’s ready to get started, because he always is. He lives for this shit.
“I want him all the way awake before we start,” I tell my brother.
“I could break a couple of his fingers. That might wake him up,” Curse replies casually.
Aleksej stations himself by the door with his arms crossed, completely unphased by the conversation we’re having. He silently watches with his icy grey gaze, the single bulb overhead casting light down on his ash-blond hair tied back in a ponytail and his closely-cropped beard.
“We wait,” I say firmly.
It takes a long time. Hours before the piece of shit in the chair can even lift his head with his weak, wobbly neck. Another thirty minutes after that before he can talk, and the fucker’s first words are to beg for water. He’s clearly seen a doctor since our earlier run in, because his nose is packed and there’s a temporary splint taped on. I walk towards him as his eyes try to focus. I can tell when they do because he balks at the sight of me.
“What the fuck. You again? God, what do you want?”
Just his stupid fucking voice makes me want to slit his throat. Should have never told her I wouldn’t kill him.
I crouch down before him and slowly, gently, remove the splint from his nose. Then I press my thumb against the smashed bridge and press down. Hard.
He’s definitely awake now. Pressing on his broken nose lights up a live wire inside him. He snaps his head backwards, but Curse is there, gripping the sides of his skull to keep him in place. So, he starts trying to move other parts. His arms and legs that are bound to the chair, squirming and grunting and hissing in pain.
“The more you fight, the harder I will press,” I mutter.
His eyes are wild, and despite the cold and his lack of clothing, he’s drenched in sweat. His chest heaves, but he stops moving, hoping I’ll let up the pressure. I do, just for a moment, and he lets out a watery breath.
“What do you want?” he asks again, his voice sounding choked-off from his destroyed nasal passages. “Money? I have money, man. I-”
I nod at Curse. My brother releases Brian’s head.
Then grasps both his thumbs and twists them from their sockets.
The sweating, quivering man in the chair howls. Curse closes his eyes and breathes out, like he’s just taken a hit of his favourite drug.
“Look at me,” I say to Brian. He doesn’t listen. His face is screwed up with agony and his eyes stay closed. “For fuck’s sake. Make him look at me.”
Curse returns to his place behind Brian, grabbing his head roughly once more.
“If you wanna keep your eyes in your head, you will open them right now,” Curse murmurs. With what looks like a colossal effort, Brian opens them. Tears stream down his face.
“This is about earlier? Shit, I’m sorry!” he babbles, he’s blinking hard against the tears, but I can tell he’s trying not to. He’s trying to look at me like he’s supposed to. Pretty fucking wise move, considering Curse really would cut out the guy’s eyes if I let him. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Deirdre, but it’s fine. It’s fine! I won’t talk to her again.”
“No, you won’t,” I agree. “But this isn’t about what you will or won’t do. It’s about what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve… What? What are you talking about?”
I stand, and Curse wrenches Brian’s head back at the same time, so he’s forced to look up at me.
