Cosenza has him in a secure location.
I’m going to get my knife into him after all. A preternatural calm settles over me. A sense that all is about to be right with the world.
At long last, the fucker is mine.
It’s late. Ruiz has come and gone. Marya’s deeply asleep. Excitement fizzles in my veins as I pull on my leather jacket, concealing the knife and gun I always keep strapped. I’m out the door seconds later, on my bike and headed to the pin Rem dropped.
February in Chicago has some real bite, but growing up in Novosibirsk has made me immune to the cold. My hands are in perfect working order when I park my bike behind Rem’s warehouse, my fingers itching to get to work.
“Valentin.” Rem nods when I enter the burned-out shell of a building. “Welcome to the party.”
“The invitation took fucking long enough.” I step aroundabandoned building materials to meet Rem and one of his men in the center of what looks like an overcooked restaurant. “Couldn’t find a place suitable enough?”
The Italian feigns a wounded look. “Is that what passes for manners in your country? Here’s a tip—you want a seat at the table, try not to offend the hosts.” The Cerreti underboss’s stance is relaxed but there’s a hardness in his expression that I’m not stupid enough to ignore.
We might share the same enemy, but we are far from friends. Pissing him off isn’t going to get me what I want. “Spasibo. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that. Now, if the pleasantries are fucking over, let’s get down to it. I’ve got better things to do than hang out with your ugly mug all night.” Rem nods at his man. I recognize him from our run-in at the symphony several weeks ago. “Johnny, grab Valentin’s party favor.”
Johnny disappears into a darkened part of the space, returning moments later dragging a huddled mass of a man behind him.
Rocco Pagano is tied at the ankles and wrists, wearing nothing but underwear, sweat, and what looks like a pint of his own blood. As Johnny dumps him at my feet I see there’s a cut on Pagano’s chest that’s still bleeding. “You got started without me.”
“Consider it a finder’s fee. The fucker has a lot of questions to answer and sins to pay for.” Rem kicks Rocco in the ribs. The man gurgles out a groan. “There’s still plenty to drain, don’t worry.”
“As long as he bleeds his secrets, I’m good.”
Rem gives me a long hard stare, like he’s trying to extract mine as well. Let him try. My mask became a permanent fixture years ago; there’s nothing here for him to see. “As long as you remember our deal, Russian. He’s yours for as long as you need to extract your intel, but you leave him alive. He’s mine to kill.”
“Da.I remember.”
“Benne. We’ll leave you to it. Another of my men will be stationed outside. He’ll lock up once you leave.”
“And check to make sure our friend is still breathing?”
Rem’s shrug is unapologetic. “Like I said. He’s got a lot to pay for.” With that he and Johnny leave.
Rocco’s head lolls against the concrete floor, eyes closed. I press the toe of my boot against his temple. His eyelids flutter then flare wide when he sees who is standing over him. “Y-y-you.”
My smile is nothing short of evil.
“F-fu-fucking traitor,” Rocco spits out. “I—I’mma…fucking…k-kill…you.”
A threat that’s dead on arrival. “And yet I’m not the one wearing more blood than clothing.”
“You f-fu-fucking s-sn-snake.” Rocco’s skull knocks the floor, his body twisting hard against his bindings. Movements that become even more panicked as I strip off my jacket and start to remove my shirt. “Wha-what the fuck? Wh-y are you stripping?”
“Getting ready to play.” I finish unbuttoning my shirt and yank the halves free from my pants. Rocco is thrashing now, face bruised and bug-eyed. He visibly jumps when I bend over him.
“Sickfuck,” he spits out. “Get a-away from m-m-me.”
I run a finger across his face, pressing against a particularly dark bruise, pleased when pain radiates off him. “No such luck,svolotsch’.”
“Pervert,” he spits out.
“Trust me, by the end of this you’ll be wishing I fucked you instead, you homophobic fuck.” I ignore Rocco’s sputtered protest and grab the lengths of rope that Cosenza has helpfully left nearby. The Italian’s sputters turn to curses as I fasten one length to his bound wrists and pull his arms taut over his head,anchoring the rope around an abandoned pile of flooring tile. The curses turn to screams as I do the same thing with his bound ankles, tying the second rope to an industrial-sized gas stove several feet away. When I’m done Rocco Pagano is strung tight, limbs pulled off the ground, body bowed under the tension.
His pulse is up, that cut on his chest bleeding faster than before. Like a beacon calling me. I finish stripping off my shirt. It’ll be easier to wash off pieces of Rocco Pagano this way.