“They transferred five hundred dollars to him last time,” Boris says.
I let out a harsh laugh. “Five hundred? What a cheap whore you are, Artyom. You valued your life so little? You were willing to destroy yourself for just five hundred dollars?”
And the two hundred thousand he’d been skimming from my business.
I push against Artyom’s groin one more time before stepping back. I see the way he sighs in relief.
That’s a bit premature.
I take my black leather gloves out of my pocket. Everyone in the room stops moving.
They all know what it means when I take out the gloves.
“Please, please, Ilya, I swear, I wasn’t… I didn’t tell them anything useful!” Artyom shouts. “Nothing that could hurt you directly!”
I sigh and wrap my hand around Artyom’s throat. “I should believe you now? After you’ve already sold me out?”
I draw my other hand back and slam my fist into Artyom’s face. He cries out, the impact echoing in the room.
My men hold Artyom in place as I punch again.
And again.
And again.
Every blow rings out. Teeth go flying. Artyom’s eyes swell shut, and he cries and begs. His words become incoherent, a mess of Russian and English, but they don’t matter.
I can’t forgive a man who betrays me.
If I let him go—if I could trust him enough to let him go with this violent warning—my men wouldn’t respect me.
Violence is baked into this world.
Betrayal is met with death.
I’d learned that early on.
My father had made me watch when he beat the men who betrayed him.
My father had made me watch as he beat my mother for disappointing him.
This is all I am.
An extension of his will, long after he’s died.
The blood stains my gloves. Drops of it land on my face and beard and suit.
Yet I keep beating Artyom until there are no more gasps, no more cries.
Until his body goes completely limp.
My men release him, and he drops to the floor. His blood trickles into the drain.
I peel my gloves off. “Clean this mess up,” I order.
“Yes, Boss,” Boris says.
I glance down at Artyom’s corpse.
