Mikey is shaking so hard that the chair is rattling under him. I stand up, close the knife, and put it back in my pocket. Then I take my time because the knife is not what Mikey is getting. I pull my gloves out of my pocket, black leather, and pull them on, slowly, working each finger into place, watching Mikey watch me do it. His eyes are bloody huge. I crack my knuckles.
“Mr. Mak… Mr. Maksimov, please…”
“I dinnae want to hear it.”
“Please…please…”
“Mikey, I dinnae want to hear it.”
I cross to him.
The first blow lands on his ribs. The cunt makes a noise like a punctured tire and tries to fold, but the ropes hold him upright. I let him breathe. I want him present.
“That’s for the money, cunt.”
The second one hits the same spot. Harder. I feel a rib go under the leather. He fucking screams.
“This one’s for the wedding band.”
The third punch is to his face. His nose breaks, blood pours down his chin onto his shirt and his jeans, on the concrete. He’s still screaming, but the sound has gone wet, choked, the cries of a man trying to breathe through a broken nose and not managing very well.
I crouch down again and put a hand on his knee.
“Mikey.”
“…”
“Mikey, look at me.”
He cannae. His head is hanging.
I take his chin in my gloved hand and lift it. His eyes roll, find mien, and focus with effort. There is blood and snot mixed on hisupper lip.
“Ye took from my girls, cunt.” A wet cough. “Ye walked into Lisa’s bedroom, opened her jewellery box, and took her fucking ring. While she was alone in that house. While she was scared. While she was bloodygrievin’a man she didnae even fucking love.”
“…m’sorry…” he mumbles.
I nod. “I know ye are.” I straighten up, let go of his chin, and his head drops. “Ye’ll be sorrier in a second.”
Then I work him for ten minutes. Not with the knife. The knife is for clean kills. Mikey doesnae get clean. Mikey gets fists and boots and the handheld I keep in my jacket for moments like this one. I work his ribs and his hands… the hands that opened her door… and his knees and his face, fuckingthorough.
He stops screaming about halfway through it. The whimpers after that are barely audible. By the end, he’s quiet.
I check his pulse with two fingers at his throat.
Still there. Faint.
“Aye.”
I pull my knife back out and do it across his throat in one pass. Clean.
I look at the three chairs. Three bodies. One slumped forward, one sideways, one against its restraints in a way that does not look like the man it used to be.
My breathing is even, my hands steady.Aye. That’s done.
* * *
By the time I’m at the sink in the office at the back, rinsing my forearms in cold water, watching blood swirl down the drain, Kostya’s already started with the hose and bleach.
