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You don’t care.
Yet even when I say that to myself, I pick up my phone.
“Natallia, find out what the bill was at Lake Mead Hospital for Kate Castile.”
* * *
It’s beenanother week since I spent the night viewing Kate’s security footage over and over. I left the office that evening resolved to let it go.
Messaging the men assigned to keep tabs on her, I let them know we have another week of surveillance. Without any evidence of her working with another organization, I can’t justify continuing. And yet, as I sit here in the back of the SUV headed out of the city, I am second-guessing everything.
I pull out my phone and open my emails to get some work done while I’m riding to our warehouse outside the city. Two days ago, we apprehended two Cosa Nostra men poking around, and they have been awaiting my arrival to further question them. Typing out a few messages and looping Natallia in on some actual business, I toss my phone to the side of the seat.
Ivan glances at me through the rearview mirror. He is gauging me. I have been on edge for the past few weeks. With Kate showing up on my radar, most of my men have been walking on eggshells when dealing with me. I don’t blame them; my temper is short. The desire to have revenge on those who killed three of my men and left me in the hospital ate at me for months after the incident. Now again, it plagues me, brought to the surface by Kate’s suspicious presence. This obsession with finding them or proving the Cosa Nostra was behind it is unrelenting.
My hand comes up to rub my chin, and I sink back into my seat watching the large city buildings shrink down to smaller businesses and housing tracks.
I’m not sure what pisses me off more: Kate potentially working for someone or the fact that she is an innocent who has coincidentally been showing up in my circles. Something about her has sunk hooks into my mind, and I want them gone. I don’t need distractions.
Ivan pulls off the main road to take a back one, off the beaten path, but also in an industrial area with other warehouses. We have tight security at each warehouse, but still, as a precaution, we move products quickly. Luckily, this warehouse has been cleaned out, and all that awaits are two snakes thinking they can mess with the Bratva.
As the car pulls up to the back entrance, there are four armed guards posted on either side of the door. Nik comes out and tips his head toward the car. I open the door as Ivan tries to hurry out and around. I hold my hand up to let him know it’s not necessary, not with what is about to go down. This isn’t the time for my hat as a king, but as an executioner.
The gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I head in, nodding to each guard there. I punch in the security code for the building and open the door, Nik following.
“Status on our guests?” I ask, not glancing back. Cement walls lead down a long hallway, ending in descending stairs. The musky smell of sweat, blood, and vomit wafts through my nose as we near the way down.
“Deprived of food and water for the two days. We have not talked to them,” Nik answers from behind. The stairs are narrow and lead to an underground bunker of sorts. Perfect for keeping sounds contained. I did learn some things from my father.
The underground floor is divided into small cells and a few rooms we use for interrogation. Each room is equipped with a floor drain for hosing down any fluids. But no matter how much you clean and bleach, the stench of death permeates the walls and saturates the air.
“I want them brought to room four. I will be alone,” I say.
“Sir—” Nik starts, but I narrow my eyes at him. I’m not messing around. He backs down another hallway toward the cells.
A few minutes later, Nik and several guards come back. “They are set in room four, Pakhan.”
I nod. “Vlad go up and get two bottles of water,” I tell one of the guards.
Nik eyes me. “What’s your angle? They were poking around warehouse seven which had a huge shipment for the Irish. They don’t need water.”
I let Nik’s comment slide, ignoring him. He is as sick of the Italians as I am. What’s worse is they keep sending small groups of men to our product. They aren’t attacking my men physically, yet. And that’s not to say they didn’t attack us seven months ago, but the pattern is odd.
It bothers me I haven’t figured out their plans. It’s smart, though—that’s what I would do. Blood is okay to spill, but cut off the money supply and disrupt alliances—that does more damage than bloodshed.
When Vlad comes back with two plastic water bottles, I grab them both and shove off the wall toward the room. Through the door I’m greeted by two men, one older and another younger. They smell rank with piss and body odor.
The older man sits up straight, hands and feet tied to a chair. The salt and pepper in his full head of hair extend down to a well-groomed beard. He sits still, staring at the wall. He doesn’t even acknowledge me—hmm well trained.
The younger one, however, reacts. With a baby face, he is taller than the old man and much more physically filled out. A gold chain hangs around his neck, and I notice the small tick in his jaw and the strained veins in his neck. His eyes betray him as they dart to the water bottles.
“Gentlemen, how are we this fine evening?” I plaster a fake as hell smile across my face while I set the water on the table by the door. Once again, the older man stares ahead, but the younger one spits on the floor.
“Russian prick!” he yells, and I smirk as I cross my arms, hands landing on each of my biceps.
“I heard you both were in the market for some weapons. Did you enjoy your pursuit of my supply?” They both don’t say anything, keeping their mouths in tight lines.
“Hm. You must be thirsty.” I grab one of the bottles off the table, and the younger man’s eyes dart to me and then to his partner.
