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I pressed my back against the brick wall of the next building beside the warehouse, glancing around the corner. There was a truck parked at the loading dock, four men moving between the two. No one noticed me. I doubted they could see anything five feet out through the rain anyway. The workers seemed to be family members rather than associates. They each looked related to each other; their foreheads slightly too big, eyes slightly too small. Their rough Italian told me they were maybe third or fourth generation.
Crates were being loaded from the back of the truck into the warehouse. Familiar crates.
My breath caught in my throat.
They were the exact same ones from Sienna’s warehouses, exactly like the ones stolen just before the explosion. The edges of my vision burned red. Something in my gut told me I had finally done what I’d set out to achieve; I’d found the fucking men who had murdered my mother.
The torrential rain was so loud they didn’t hear me coming. Two men fell to my gun before they even knew what was happening. Another’s throat split open before they realized who was attacking them. It was over before it even started, quick and deadly. Which wasn’t exactly what I was going for. I wanted each of these men to die a slow and painful death, but my anger had gotten the better of me.
The fourth man’s hand trembled as he fumbled for the gun at his waist. I easily knocked it away, sending it clattering over the cement. Gripping his shirt in both hands, my head jolted forward. He screamed as my forehead collided with his nose, the crack like a gunshot. I dragged him into the warehouse, using him as a shield just in case there were more of them. He was moaning so loudly that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d draw his entire family straight to us. But there was no one else in the warehouse that I could see.
I dragged him over to a metal chair, slamming him down into it before grabbing the heavy chains that had been tossed to the side. It took me no time at all to truss him up like the pig he was. His head lolled to the side, giving me a better look.
The man wasn’t familiar to me, but that didn’t matter. His brown hair now looked black from the rain, his dark eyes gazing blankly at the far wall of the warehouse. The dark curls along his jaw needed a trim, and his clothes looked ragged. Still, I noticed the flash of a nice watch on his wrist. A fuckingChopard.
Gripping the front of his shirt, I yanked him closer. “Who the fuck paid you off?”
A moan was his only response. Disgusted, I shoved the man away. The chair nearly toppled to the side. Glancing around the open space, my eyes fell on a tool kit on a metal table, pliers and all. Grinning like a madman, I snatched the box, hauling it back towards my victim. If he wasn’t going to talk willingly, then I’d make him.
I dragged another chair close to him, taking a seat. The box of tools was laid open at my feet, revealing nails, pliers, and other assorted torture goodies. Tonight, I might finally exact revenge on my mother. But even then, I knew it would never be enough. No amount of blood could ever bring her back.
Slowly, I picked up the pliers, examining them closely until the man finally noticed them. His face went pale, the blood draining away in seconds. That seemed to snap him out of his stupor for a bit.
“Who paid you?” I growled, snapping the pliers before his face.
His head shot back, as far from the pliers as possible. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I could hear the tremor in his voice. The fear.
Good.
“I’m not going to ask a third time,” I replied calmly, still admiring the tool in my hand.
“I’m telling you the truth!”
I ignored the pleading in his voice. The desperation. “Then where the fuck did those crates come from, I wonder.”
The man’s eyes darted towards the truck, still clearly visible from where we were sitting. “We were just moving some goods. We have no idea where they came from.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” I snarled. My hand snapped forward, gripping his wrist. The pliers had the first knuckle of his first finger gripped between the flat sides before he could open his mouth to reply. With a twist, there was a sickening crunch just before his scream. “Where the hell did you get those crates?” I demanded.
“They were sent to us!” Tears streamed down his face openly now, his voice heavy with pain. “I fucking swear! They were sent to us a week or so ago. With—with a note to use one to kill someone. We didn’t know who it was. We were just given a photo!”
I froze. My mother never really went out to charities or galas or anything with my father if it involved the underground, so it wasn’t surprising that this lowlife didn’t recognize who she was. But the fact that it had been her picture that was sent rather than mine or my father’s—whoever had sent it knew what they were doing.
Yet the fact that her death hadn’t been a botched attempt to end my life, but was, in fact, an actual hit, only pissed me off more.
“Who sent it.”
“I don’t know!” His voice rose as I reached for his other finger with the pliers. “I fucking swear! I don’t know! You have to believe me!”
“I don’t believe shit that comes out of your mouth.”
The man screamed again as another knuckle snapped in half. It was a while before his choked sobs subsided to pathetic whimpers.
“Who. Sent. It.” I was done playing these fucking games. I wanted answers. “Was it the Snake?”
The man’s head snapped up at the name. “Yes! That’s who it was! There was a snake stamp at the top of the page!”
“Do you know who the Snake is?” I asked quickly. “A way to contact them? Anything at all?”
