Chapter Two: Andrei

Cupping my hand around my Cuban cigar, I light the end of it, hoping Chicago’s moody wind won’t whip the light out. This place isn’t called the Windy City for no reason. Successfully, it lights as Makar—my right-hand man stops the car outside the abandoned brick building on the Southside of Chicago. If I had my way, we would have taken this out past the woods and dug a grave, but Makar convinced me this was the better option.

Makar drums his heavy fingers on the steering wheel, his deep voice cutting through my thoughts. “This is where we’re keeping him, Boss.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s see him,” I reply curtly, slightly amused that Ryan had enough balls to challenge the Bratva. I should have known by his overeagerness to become a supplier, and all the errands he was willing to run. I have to admit, I dropped the ball.

My associates snicker behind me as I open the car door, getting out and stretching my six-foot-four limbs. It’s close to dusk in Chicago, and the sky is a nice mauve backdrop for death. The Southside of Chicago isn’t the hangout to be at night—but for us, it’s an old stomping ground, and one we gladly rule over these days. Since the acquisition of the Omerta Files, as a Bratva family, we’ve become unstoppable. Nobody says no to us, and if they do, we blackmail the fuck out of them.

“Yeah, let’s see the bitch,” one of my associates parrots. I hit him on the chest, a thick plume of cigar smoke wafting through the air as we walk forward. “Shut up. Weren’t you throwing up last week from the sight of blood?” I tease, baring a shit-eating grin. It is always fun to do a money collection, only for the payers not to make good on it. Stabbing Stavrov in the stomach was only a small warning, but then he decided to openly fight back. Opening his wound and spilling his intestines seemed to be the adequate price to pay.

“Nah, nah. I ate something bad, Andrei. It wasn’t like that,” he mumbles as my other associates chuckle and Makar opens the rusted lock. I nod to Makar to lead the way as he opens the door, and I draw my gun. There’s not a soul in sight, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t been ambushed before. That’s a given in our profession. My muscles coil as pigeons coo in the high beamed rafters, faint beams of light hitting the mottled concrete. Looking skyward, I check for enemies on the top floor of the warehouse, scanning between the boxes. We all stop, our guns cocked, and only hearing our breaths, but there’s no movement.

“Good?” I ask Makar as he flips on the dim light in the dusty industrial space.

“Good. He’s in the basement,” he remarks as we cut over the warehouse floor to a hidden door in the corner. “He probably stinks by now,” Makar cackles cruelly. We’ve kept the infiltrator locked in the basement for a couple of days, and it’s highly likely he does stink.

Makar does the honor, flicking on the amber light, which cascades down the dingy staircase. A whimperish moan echoes from down below. “He’s still not talking, and we haven’t fed him,” Makar adds conclusively as I stub out my cigar in frustration.

Rubbing my hands together, I collect my thoughts and speak to one of my associates behind me as we clamber down the stairs. “Do you have the kit?” Once I’m done with him, I’m sure he’s going to snitch like his life depends on it.

“Yep. Sure do. Are you going to use it?”

“Is the fucking sky blue?” I bite back, ready to crank up the next stage of proceedings. Makar flicks the basement light on as a rat scurries across Ryan’s boots. He squints, sensitive to the light. He’s tied up in a wooden chair with his head hanging forward and there’s a pool of blood on the ground.

Makar was right. There’s an incredibly putrid stench filling the room, and it’s coming from him. Kicking a nearby rat out of the way, I listen to it squeal and observe it burying itself into the wall. Once we’re done with him, I might leave him to play with his newfound rat friends.

Inhaling and rolling my shoulders back. “You fucking stink bitch.”

Lifting his head, he shakes, his eyes widening in fright. His right eye is puffy, and the eyelid itself is hanging underside out. I think one of my men must have hit him while wearing a ring. At least it looks that way for the meat of his eyelid to show through the way it is. His left cheek is bigger than any puffer fish I’ve ever seen. He blinks, flinches, but can’t move because his hands are tied behind his back.

“Ooo, that look likes it hurts. Does it Ryan?” I mock, coming closer to his face even though I hate the smell. He shudders, offering nothing as I expected, and my associate lays out my special toolkit on the steel table next to him. I tuck my finger under Ryan’s chin again feeling nothing but loathing for him. One—because he betrayed my trust, and two—because I let someone in who wasn’t a part of Bratva origin. Now, I must make an example out of my mistake. “I asked you… a question… Does it hurt?” Gritting my teeth, I smell the fear emanating from him, but his stupid mouth remains wired shut.

Who the fuck is his boss?

Ryan turns his head, attempting to slip his face out of my grip, but I hold on tight, tempted to spit in it, but instead, I swipe the trickle of thickened blood from his brow.

“I guess he didn’t hear you, Boss. What do you think will work to make him clean out his ears?” Makar questions in a cold tone, handing me a pair of pliers. Ryan’s eyes bug out as he shakes his head.

“No!”

I tap the pliers in my hand with a defiant smirk. “Oh, there it is. Ryan speaks. Do you want to tell me who the fuck you’re working for? Who sent you to infiltrate the Bratva?” I drill, nodding at Makar to clear the way as my two associates lift the chair off the ground and place Ryan in front of the torture table of tools.

I watch as his head swings forward, and under watchful Bratva eyes, my associates untie his hands, spreading his fingers out in front of him on the table. “Put your hands out, fucker!” Makar grabs Ryan’s balled-up hands as he battles to keep them from being disfigured, but it’s too little, too late.

Rounding the table, I stand on the other side, waiting for my men to stop him from squirming. “No! I’m not giving you a fucking name!” he screams, the veins in his neck straining.

Makar and I exchange mirthful glances. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. This won’t do. Is he stupid?”

One of my associates demonstrates his punishment for defying me, hauling off and slapping him, his face ricocheting like a hinged door. “I think he’s a glutton for punishment, Boss. He might enjoy what you’re about to do next.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to think he does. Hold his fingers steady, I think his nails are a little too long, what do you think, Makar?”

“I agree with you. Too long,” he jokes, his eyebrows waggling as Ryan writhes in terror, the trickle of blood that ran down the side of his face, now superseded by the sweat of fear.

“Do you think I should cut one or two?”

Makar shrugs noncommittedly as the dim light flickers overhead. This is too much fun for me. The last time I played with the torture tools was a few years ago. Most of the time I like to shoot. This is more my cousin, Ruslan’s forte when he has the chance. In fact—my cousin is the one I learned these unique techniques from.

Ryan’s breath quickens as Makar provides his answer. “Argh. I’m a nice guy. Let’s go with two nails. Just to sharpen them up.” He winks as I lay one index finger flat, looking him dead square in the eye.

“Who’s your boss? Tell me now, and I won’t tear this nail out of your finger.”

Ryan winces, clearly in pain, but not enough to snitch. I shake my head, half-impressed and half-annoyed. I want the name. I’m curious to know who would try us like this, especially given the power we hold as a network. “You are real, real stupid for being this loyal.”

Without flinching, I pinch down on his nail with the pliers and wrench it off his finger, Ryan letting out a blood-curdling squawk. “Fucking son-of-a-bitch!” he yelps, blood spurting from his finger as he sobs.

“Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, I told you to give me a name,” I say in a sing-song voice. “All you have to do is give me a name.” I back up and pace as he squeals, his face turning two shades whiter than he already is. He doesn’t buckle under the pressure like I expect, but I still give him a beat to answer, looking at my associates—awestruck.

“Shit. He wants the full manicure treatment, Boss,” one of them calls out.

“Seems like he does, and I’m here to give it to him, but before I do. Are you going to give me a name?”

Ryan huffs, blowing out his breath, but not answering. Again, I lock down his bloodied hand, ripping another nail free and holding it up to the light as Ryan’s hand, drenched in blood, shakes from the pain.

Letting my eyes penetrate his, I hold the prize of his nail up to the flickering light. “Next one? or should I just fucking shoot you? You’re really starting to piss me off,” I bark, growing sick of the torture game already.

Ryan opens his mouth as if he wants to say something but groans instead. I pull the gun out, pointing it right in the middle of his face, and he has the audacity to speak. “Y-you can’t shoot me. You need me,” Ryan says, laughing, his eyelid hanging off. Idiot.

The laughter is what gets to me. I’ve just ripped two of his nails off his fingers and he’s grinning in a Bratva boss’s face? Hell no. I raise my gun from his nose to his temple, directing my associates silently out of the way. They both move to the side as Ryan catches on, his face harboring bewilderment, but it’s too late as I press my eyes shut and fire. There. He falls back from his chair with a thud to the floor as my associates look on casually. A standard day at the Bratva office.

“Was that necessary to kill the guy?” Makar asks as a river of crimson blood flows from Ryan cracking his skull on the concrete, not to mention the bullet in his head. Cleaning my gun with a cloth and picking off a chunk of flesh from my jacket, I nod.

“Yes. Now, I need a fucking drink.”

“He may have been our only source of information,” Makar continues, but I sigh, cracking my neck.

“Like I said, I need a drink.” I glower at him, making my point clear.

“Fine. Fine. We should hit Destiny Bar. We haven’t gone there in a while. The last time we went there was for a celebration, so how about there?”

A smile creeps over my face, my mood renewed. “Good suggestion. That’s what I like.” I grin.