I wished I never opened that damn book!
Chapter 2 – Artur
His toes barely grazed the concrete floor, his skin marked with bruises and fresh scars. He looked at me in terror, both hands chained above his head to a rafter. His breathing was labored, and his eyes were swollen from all the beating.
“Please…show mercy,” he whispered, his voice weak and strained. “I have a family.”
I sat in the dimly lit corner, the faint sound of my clinking cutlery cutting through the silence. Despite the stench of sweat and blood in the air, I ate at my table, enjoying my dinner.
The tines of my fork dug into a piece of steak, and I lifted it to my mouth. Ignoring the traitor’s cry for mercy, I took a bite and began chewing, savoring the flavors dancing on my tongue.
I reached for the half-filled glass of champagne on the table and grabbed it by the stem. After a few sips, I set it back down and continued eating.
Behind me, classical music drifted from a spinning LP, the needle whispering against vinyl. Its soft crackle threaded through the room as I ate in silence.
I looked at my lieutenant, Konstantin, then nodded for him to continue from where he left off. Without a word, he moved closer to the hanging man, knuckles cracking.
“No, please,” he pleaded.
The first punch to his guts drew a strained groan from his lungs. His battered face contorted in pain as the beating he took increased.
Personally, I hated men who lacked the spunk to face the consequences of their actions. They knew the rules and the punishment attached to breaking them.
Yet every once in a while, I was forced to deal with greedy bastards stupid enough to go against the brotherhood.And the worst part was having to listen to their pleas and empty promises about turning a new leaf.
Most of them, after being caught and tortured, would always claim to be sorry. But the truth was that they weren’t sorry for what they did. They only felt that way because they were fuckin’ caught.
I hated that term “sorry.”
Never had I granted mercy to a man who crossed the line. And even on the rare occasion a punishment other than death crossed my mind, that pesky little word ensured it never lasted.
The only reason this asshole was still breathing was because he was smart enough not to have used that word.
His name was Bogdan, and he was a traitor. The bastard stole an important Bratva ledger and sold it to a rival gang. The punishment for that was death. But I wasn’t about to let him off easy.
The sounds of his bones cracking and his flesh tearing added to the melody of the classical music in the background. Wonderful. His deep grunts grew deeper and more painful, weaker after each strike.
I waved my hand, and Konstantin held his next punch. Bogdan’s breathing came in heavy gasps, his face battered beyond recognition. The chair’s legs scraped against the floor as I rose to my feet, dabbing a napkin over my mouth.
I adjusted the bow tie around my neck, my menacing footsteps clicking against the concrete. His fear lingered in the air like bad breath as I approached with a steady gaze.
“I have a family,” he pleaded faintly. “A wife and a kid. Please….”
I halted in front of him, flexing my fingers at my sides. “Tell me, Bogdan,” I began, my voice low and even. “Did you think of your family when you stole from me?”
His swollen and bleeding lips trembled as he mumbled words I couldn’t quite catch.
My gaze scanned his sweaty skin until I noticed a broken rib. I reached out and casually pressed my fingers on it.
He threw his back and groaned deeply, his body shuddering in pure pain. The longer the weight of my hand crushed his broken rib, the louder his screams.
I withdrew a box of cigarettes and picked out a stick. Perched between my lips, I lit the damn thing, taking a long, satisfying drag.
Bogdan was shaking, sweating like a goat. “They haven’t picked it up yet,” he whimpered.
“What?” I let out a puff of smoke.
“The ledger,” he answered, straining to breathe. “They haven’t picked it up yet.”