My face is a patchwork of bruises. Same with my stomach and ribs. Alessio got me good, but I’ve had worse, and there’s something comforting about the pain. I know how to deal with pain.
What I don’t know how to deal with is my wife.
She insisted I take not one, but two days off work, and then she proceeded to ignore me for most of them, only checking in around mealtimes to make sure I ate what she made for me.
As if I wouldn’t.
For all her coldness, one thing is keeping my hope alive.
Blake could have escaped when I was unconscious. She could have taken my keys, wallet, and phone, ignored all my warnings, and been on her way to California by now.
But she stayed and took care of me.
And then she scolded Alessio Fucking Ferraro like he’s a kid in middle school instead of the biggest psychopath in New York City.
The memory of it still makes me chuckle. I’m going to remember that befuddled look on Alessio’s face for the rest of my life.
I pull up to the curb outside the coffee shop, get out of my car, and glance around. This neighborhood isn’t in Ferraro’s territory. Why the fuck does Alessio have a hard-on for this particular spot?
I walk inside. I’m expecting some gourmet hipster bullshit, but it’s nothing special. Behind the counter, the grumpy middle-aged woman with a polka-dot apron tied around her waist pours me two cups out of a stained coffee pot. “Five bucks.”
“You got any oat milk?”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No. Try the convenience store next door.”
I pay her and snap lids onto the steaming paper cups. As I walk out, two older men playing chess at one of the tables by the door shoot me dirty looks.
The fuck?
I don’t understand why Alessio sent me here. But I don’t think anyone knows what’s going on inside that guy’s head.
After I pick up a full fucking carton of oat milk, I get back into my car and drive to the warehouse.
My footsteps echo as I make my way underground.
In the torture room, Alessio’s sitting on a metal stool in front of a guy tied to a chair. He’s pulling off the guy’s nails one by one.
“Brought you your coffee,” I shout so that he’ll hear me over the man’s screams.
He glances over his shoulder and puts the pliers down on the tray beside him before getting to his feet. He walks over and takes one of the cups from me, leaving bloody prints on the white surface. “Thanks.”
I tip my head in the direction of his sobbing prisoner. “Who’s this?”
“A Bratva runner.” He takes a sip. “Junior, but we’ve heard he’s done errands directly for the pakhan. I’m trying to get the location of the safe house where the pakhan is hiding.”
“He’s in hiding?” He wasn’t when I left six months ago.
“Yeah. He’s a paranoid fuck. He’s giving his vors orders exclusively over the phone. They’ve got a lot on their plate managing all the men they’re shipping here by busload from Boston.”
So things have really heated up. “What’s their agenda?”
“Business conditions in Boston have become inhospitable. The new mayor has promised to crack down on organized crime, andhe’s got the Bratva in his crosshairs. The writing’s on the wall. They’re trying to move into new territory.”
“And they chose New York? Don’t they know how crowded it’s gotten?”
Alessio shrugs. “The Bratva loves New York. They romanticize it. They think if they can rule here, they can rule anywhere. This whole thing is driven as much by emotion as it is by logic.”
“I take it you’re not negotiating?”
