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This man will pay the price for her. My frustrations will be vented out on him.
He lifts his head slowly until he can look me in the eye. His battered face is swollen, and his skin is bruised from the beating Rurik gave him earlier. Luigi Bianchi is a made man in the Lanzarre Mafia, and Anton caught him snooping in one of our warehouses. When Rurik and I showed up, Anton’s large bulk had the man already pinned facedown to the ground.
Bianchi spits blood onto the floor. “I’m not going to tell you anything, Starukhin.”
“Funny.” I lean into his space, and I can smell his foul sweat. “That’s what they all say right before they break.”
He looks at me, and his gaze is filled with disgust. “I’m not a snitch,” he hisses.
Grinning, I lean closer. “Then let’s put that to the test,” I whisper.
Bianchi has a handsome face—well, had—but I can tell by his cheap suit that his good looks aren’t important to him. I eye the signet rings on his fingers and his manicured nails. Showing off those rings means something to him.
I nod, putting my hands in my pants pocket, and watch Rurik pull a pair of pliers from a canvas work bag. The workers quickly find other things to do at the opposite end of the warehouse as Rurik grabs Bianchi’s thumb. Bianchi’s eyes widen as the tool clamps down, and he jerks against the zip ties, bucking in the chair.
“Fuck you,” he shouts. “You Russian fuck!”
Rurik chuckles and twists the thumb unnaturally—enough to hurt but not enough to do any damage. Yet. “Your nails look pretty, Bianchi. Almost as pretty as my wife’s.” He looks at me and grins. “Do you want to do the honors, pakhan?”
“And deprive you of your fun, Rurik?” I shrug like it bores me. “Continue.”
But Rurik holds the pliers toward me. “It would be rude of me not to share.”
Bianchi starts to curse and shout, but Anton clamps his massive hand over Bianchi’s mouth. He watches intently as I step forward and take the pliers away from Rurik.
Bianchi’s eyes widen in terror as the sweat races down his face. I press the tip of the pliers to Bianchi’s thumbnail and squeeze. Muffled screams echo off the walls as I rip off a nail. Blood pours from the wound, and I toss the mess on the ground. Silently and quickly, a worker appears and washes it away. I reach for the next thumbnail. He tries to fight me, but Anton continues to hold him still. With a smooth, practiced motion, I tear off the remaining thumbnail.
I sneer at his pain. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the whole thumb.”
Anton releases Bianchi’s mouth and steps back. Screams echo throughout the warehouse. I tune the sound out as I stare down at him, imagining his corpse outside, floating in the waters of Newark.
“Where is Zakhar?”
My question is met with a glare, so I press the pliers to the next nail and wait.
He instantly hisses in pain. “Okay, okay,” he shouts, piss staining the front of his pants.
“I’m listening,” I say, releasing the pressure ever so slightly. “And no lying, youpetukh.”
He squirms in his restraints, sweat pouring down his face as he struggles to form a coherent sentence. “I don’t know where he is, but I know he came to us and said that he had information to take your whole damn Bratva down.”
“Didn’t I just tell you to not lie?” I keep my eyes on Bianchi as I turn my head. “Anton, where did you find our guest?”
Anton jerks to attention, his eyes alert as an owl’s. “Outside. Near the road. He was on foot, but he was watching the door.”
“Interesting,” I reply as I turn back to Bianchi. The building has no markings. No sign over the door. The address is listed as an access road. I doubt it even exists on Google Maps. And from the outside, it sure as shit looks abandoned. “How’d you find out about this place, Bianchi?”
“Lucky guess,” he snarls.
“Wrong answer.” I yank on the pliers, ripping out another nail. He shrieks from the pain.
“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with, Starukhin?” Bianchi stares defiantly at me, not yet broken. “Save us both the trouble.”
“How did you find this place?” I ignore him as I move down to another finger. “One more chance. Or would you prefer me to work your thumbs again?”
When he doesn’t respond, I clamp the pliers down on the bloody exposed flesh of his thumb. Bianchi’s screams rise in octaves, but I don’t let go. Not until he’s slumped forward in his seat, panting as tears and sweat mix on his face.
“Talk.” I squat down in front of him and tip his face up.
