“That million dollars you’re trying to transfer to an offshore account begs to differ,” Lucky says.
“What do you think, Luck? Should I end him?”
“Please!” Cantarelli shouts. “I can explain. Let me explain!”
“Now, or it’s over.” I jam the gun deeper into his temple for emphasis.
It’s already over for him, but he has the choice to come clean and have an easy death or to prolong this. We’ll make him suffer all fucking night.
“It was the fucking Russians,” he spits. “I’ve been gambling in one of their clubs. I got in too deep. I was going to lose everything I’ve worked for. My cars, my house, my wife and kids… Then one of them came to me with a proposition. They’d wipe my debts and give me a million. All I had to do was arrange for a drug deal between us and the cartel. I didn’t know anyone was going to get killed, I fucking swear.”
Lucky and I exchange a glance—we’re on the same page. Part of what Cantarelli is saying makes sense, but not the last half.
“Bullshit,” I tell him. “You thought they’d just forgive your debts and send you packing with a million bucks to arrange a coke deal? Do you think we’re fucking stupid?”
“N-no,” he blurts. “I don’t think that.”
“Luck, I think thisstronzois insulting our intelligence,” I say. “How about you?”
Lucky’s knife presses into Cantarelli’s neck. “Maybe he needs to learn a lesson.”
The blade goes deeper. Fresh blood trickles down. I take the Glock from Cantarelli’s temple, pick up the sledgehammer, and shatter his other kneecap. He’s crying, snot running down his face. Blood everywhere.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please just stop.”
“Which Russian came to you with the proposal?” I demand, gripping the handle of the sledge and prepared to give it another go.
“I don’t know,” he blurts.
But he doesn’t need to tell me. I’m already sure I know it’s Dmitri Sidorov. He was an enforcer for the last Pakhan, and now that his brother has taken on the role, nothing has changed. But I also can’t deny the surge of disappointment that strangles me at the realization.
We’re supposed to be riding the high of a truce, but if what I suspect is true, the Bratva is back-dooring us. They paid one of our capos to have our crew ambushed along with the cartel guys.
And if that’s the case, there’s only one conclusion to draw. They’re trying to start a war between us and the cartel.
“Which Russian arranged this?” Lucky presses, cutting a little deeper.
“I don’t know. Fuck. Please don’t kill me.” Cantarelli is openly weeping now.
I don’t feel a fucking thing.
“I’ll show you the mercy you showed the men you sent to their deaths.” I push the barrel of the Glock into his mouth. “Unless you tell us the truth…”
I’m about to end him when a gunshot rings out, followed by another. My upper left arm stings, but I can’t worry about whether I’ve been hit or not.
Lucky and I both crouch down, using Cantarelli as a shield. I do a quick scan, Glock raised, looking for the source of the bullets. This is our warehouse, on our turf, guarded by our own men. No one should be able to get in here. There’s only one way in, and the doorway is empty. Whoever it was who got off those shots, he’s gone now.
“Fuck,” Lucky says, nodding toward Cantarelli.
His head is slumped forward. He’s been hit. We weren’t finished with him yet. We were about to get a more definitive idea of who he was working with. Which Russian was holding the puppet strings.
“Call the guys standing guard,” I tell my brother. “I’ve got your back.”
He doesn’t waste time getting on his burner. But there’s no answer. Which means that either our guards are dead or they’re somehow incapacitated. Either way, it’s no fucking good.
“Try the men down the street,” I tell him, eyes locked on the empty doorway.
That’s when I realize Cantarelli’s gone quiet. He’s not weeping, not breathing raggedly, not moaning in pain. I pull back his hanging head to confirm my suspicions.
