Connor calls me. "What the hell did you leave me with, Roman? I was in a firefight in Fallujah that was cleaner than this!"
Admittedly, what we left for the police isn't pretty. There's still haze lingering from the gunfire andTheReina Oscurais listing heavily to the left, taking on water rapidly from the fist-sizedholes I'd shot into the engine compartment. Morales' crew is a bloody collection of corpses, and two of the crates were shot open, spilling hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of cocaine on the cracked cement.
"Well, now you're just hurting my feelings," I pout. Alexsey smothers a laugh as he wipes blood spray off his cheek and his hands.
"How the hell are we going to explain the mountains of military-grade bullet casings?" Connor shouts.
"The boat crew turned against the dock workers. Everybody got greedy," I shrug. "Why are you whining to me? You're getting a nice photo in theNew York Times, standing in front of a big fucking pile of coke. You're making the city safer, Detective Connor. You're my hero."
There's a round of thumping and muffled yelling from our cartel guests in the trunk before Dmitri slams his gun against the rear seat divider, telling them to shut the fuck up.
"I'm looking forward to a round with Diego and Marcus tonight," I say happily. "You two want to join me?"
"I'm feeling inspired by our familial violence," Alexsey says. "I'm going to paint."
"This is where being a husband and a father take precedence," Dmitri says a little sadly. He perks up. "If they're still alive tomorrow, I'd be delighted to join you."
"Always so polite,Pahkan Junior,"I say deferentially. I know the title infuriates him.
"Remember that you're facing a lifetime of working with me,Sovietnik Junior," he warns, and it feels like a fist is grippingmy heart. Paperwork. A lifetime of paperwork and managing the interests of the Morozov Bratva.
Fucking duty, and honor.
***
Pakhan - the head of a Russian Bratva
Sovietnik - the second in command, acts as an advisor and keeps in communication with the lower branches of the organization.
Chapter Eight
In which Jack loses an eye and Roman loses an opportunity.
Roman….
A week later…
Jack Barton's girlfriend lives in Queens in a trendy building on a recently gentrified street. I know this because there is an expensive coffee shop next door, and a music store that sellsonlyvinyl records.
I broke into her condo and while he was treating her to the best three minutes and twenty seconds of her life, I remotely paired his phone and installed the tracker in seconds, finishing just as he did. It’s easy enough to track his comings and goings, which is good because I don't enjoy having to chase this asshole all over Manhattan.
To be fair, Jack does seem to keep to a strict schedule. Tuesdays and Thursdays are spent gambling at one of the Bianchi Mafia's many underground casinos or visiting his bookie. Friday nights find Jack hitting one of the bars in the Financial District, moving with the other Chads in a drunken herd reeking of entitlement and Hugo Boss cologne. Saturdays are for high profile events or an expensive restaurant to show off Poppy, and Sundays are spent golfing with The Chads and drinking heavily at the country club bar.
Even with that busy schedule, he still has time to fit in a squash game or two and visit his girlfriend Marlee twice a week. I had to double check her age because she looks younger than nineteen and if she'd been underage, I would have enjoyed torturing him for a very long time before killing him.
I've decided that making it look like a hit for unpaid gambling debts is the easiest route. Fucking with the Italians is never a good idea, especially for a civilian. Tonight is Tuesday, and Jack's keeping to his schedule, visiting his bookie, and parking his Jaguar behind the building.
As if that'll hide it. The Jaguar is black with excessive aftermarket chrome with a license plate that reads INTHECLUB. It's so pathetic that no self-respecting car thief would boost it, though I am considering spray painting a tiny dick on the hood.
He comes out of his bookie's place humming, smoothing his hair in the reflection of his car window before I slip behind him, pulling out my knife. There's a symbol the Italians like to carve on their victims and I'll cut it into his chest right after I slice his throat.
But first, some questions.
My arm goes around his neck, he shrieks before I cut off his air, a high feminine sound that is in no way enhancing his attempt to cultivate a reputation as an Apex predator. "If you try to scream again, I will cut your throat," I murmur, tracing the curved blade of Damascus steel down his cheek and he gives a soft whimper.
"You've been a busy boy, Jack," I say. "Does Poppy know about your visits with Marlee?" He violently shakes his head, muffled grunts coming out from under my arm. "What about all those losses at the Bianchi casinos?" I give his cheek some lightscrapes with my blade, like I'm giving him the world's most terrifying shave. He twitches, eyes following the pass of the blade.
"I'm going to pull my arm back a little, but if you make a single noise or attempt to go for a panic button, I will gut you like a deer. Are we clear?"
