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“She was the most perfect little kid you’ve ever seen. I remember the first time she smiled at me. I’d only tell you this, but sometimes, I almost cry remembering that smile.”
The driver-passenger wall is soundproofed, so nobody heard that but my little brother.
“Sometimes, I want to see that smile again.”
“Have more kids?” Dario says. “You could do that anytime you wanted. Half the women in the city want to marry you.”
“Do you think Rosa’s ready?”
“It’s been five years,” Dario says. “You have to move on at some point.”
I turn and stare at him. He doesn’t need me to say it. He needs to move on too.
I take several large, chunky rings from my jacket pocket as we reach our destination.
“He deserves it,” Dario says angrily, “and much worse. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.”
* * *
The thick rag binding his hands to the chain-link rope used to be white, but it’s crimson now. In the shadows of the warehouse—the windows are blacked out—my men stand out of the harsh glare of the floor lamp. I stare at the man with one cheek bruised from a beating my men must’ve given him en route.
After meeting my woman, I’m even more sickened at what this man did. He recorded it and sent the video to Edonismo: a mother and her daughter.
I punch him so hard in the mouth three of his teeth fly into the lamplight and clatter on the floor. My second strike takes him in the gut, causing him to try to keel over, but the rope stops him, and he dribbles blood all over himself.
“Women and children inmyfucking city?”
Two more blows remove three more teeth, and then I step back, taking the rag Dario hands to me. I wipe my hands and grab his face, forcing him to look at me. It sickens me to touch him.
I met with the mother and the daughter after what he did. They survived physically, but their minds are shattered, twisted at what he forced them… They’re out of state now, in a special care unit, but that doesn’t make it better.
“They might’ve been better dead,” I snarl, then headbutt him. His nose breaks, and more blood spills. I step away and wipe myself down again.
“The Russian Bratva are funneling their trash into the drug circulation of low-income neighborhoods.”
The man groans, staring through blurry eyes.
“What did I just say?” I snarl.
“The Bratva are selling sick dope where poor people live, yes?” He groans. “That is it. Yes?”
“Where are they keeping it? Who are the dealers?”
“If I tell you…” He pauses, coughing some more. “You let me live, yes?”
“You tell me, and I put a bullet in your head. If you hold out, we’ll hurt you badly and then put a bullet in your head.”
“I will never betray the Bratva. Not if I cannot live. You will not break me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I turn and walk into the darkness. Dario strides into the light, holding a hammer in one hand and a knife in the other. The Russian doesn’t take long to give us what we want.
Once it’s over, I return to the light and press my gun against his head. It’s always brutal, killing a man, but I don’t feel any guilt as I pull the trigger. As his body slumps forward, I feel nothing. I’m not even righteous about avenging that poor woman and her daughter.
In the car, Dario says, “That’s how they’ve taken over the unions—the fentanyl-laced shit. We’ve already lost five men to it: civilians and regular construction workers. Even more to addiction. This should help the legitimate side of the business too.”
