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Finally, the older man decides to say something. “Don’t drink it. Could be poison.”
I let out a wicked chuckle. “Poison? Is that what the Bratva is known for?”
It’s a rhetorical question, because of course not. Poison is a cheap trick, a coward’s way out. No, the Bratva does not use poison. We relish the physical contact of our kills, and we look at those dying at our hands in the eyes—watching the life fade out.
My laughter dies when I walk over to the youngest man. Grabbing a handful of hair, I wrench his head back. He squirms, testing the bindings of his arms and legs. As he opens his mouth to say something, I shove the water bottle in and squeeze. Water cascades into his mouth. He is spitting and sputtering as the water overflows down the sides of his face.
“Screw you!” he says, and I hold his gaze. The older man’s eyes dart over to him but then back straight.
“The question is simple: do you work for the Cosa Nostra?” I ask.
They appear Italian, but appearance is not always a surety. With organized crime in America, the ancestry lines have blurred. Men take wives from other organizations in alliance-based marriages. Some men recruit Americans, and bloodlines can be broken, allowing for another bloodline to take over.
Both men steal their faces, and the younger one sniffs with a face of disgust. Without warning, I thrust my palm up and into his nose. The crunch is audible and immediate. Blood gushes out, and the man screams.
“Ah. Shit!” The words gurgle as blood seeps out of his mouth.
“Who sent you?” I try again, walking in a circle around them.
I am calm and controlled.
The older man’s eyes widen just enough that I catch it. The younger one is probably a distant family member. Not too close to speak on their behalf, but not so removed he doesn’t care.
“We are as good as dead anyway. We won’t tell you.” The older man speaks, and I can hear his accent laced throughout his words. This man is Cosa Nostra.
I don’t hesitate. I pull out my pistol and shoot the young man in the left kneecap. The gunshot is loud as it bounces off the four walls.
The young man hollers and screams. Tears purge down his face as he begs, “Please.”
“We were sent. He wanted a count on containers for the West Coast.” The older man gives up. Maybe I was wrong. They’re closer than I thought.
“Why?”
The Italians don’t deal in weapons. They deal drugs and women—I hate it.
My father was always tempted to dip into the drug market, but we convinced him to stick with arms deals. They are more lucrative, and your own men don’t get addicted. It sounds minor, but this is a huge problem with organizations in the drug trafficking trade. Half their men are strung out and making dumbass mistakes. The women—let’s say that’s a Cosa Nostra specialty—despicable. Women and children are not commodities. I may be a messed up, undeserving man, but evenIdon’t cross that boundary.
“We don’t know!” The younger man grinds out through his clenched teeth.
Blood is dripping down his leg and onto the floor. He is beginning to pale from blood loss.
“You think you will figure it out Russian scum?” he laughs. “You haven’t seen anything yet? We almost got you that nig—”
He coughs and spits more blood out.
“Did you think you were the only one following her?” He wheezes that last question, and my head snaps up.
Who the hell is he talking about?Her? Wait—they know I’m having Kate followed. But the only way they’d know that—
“Shut up, Giovanni!” the older man yells, and I smile.
“Nyet, Giovanni, keep talking.” I aim my gun at his other knee and fire.
* * *
After another thirty minutes,with only a touch of information, I finally put them both down.
Exiting the room I tell Nik, “Get someone to clean this up. They know about Kate.”
