The night air is cold against my skin. I push past the gate and head down the dark gravel road. My steps are too fast, too hard, but I don’t slow. If I stop, I’ll turn back, and then what?
You’ll go into her room.The cold, rational part of me already knows how this will end.You’ll kiss her pretty lips and forget you were ever mad at her. Let her play you for a fool all over again.
Not in a million fucking years.
But even after I’ve walked three or four miles through the woods, my mind keeps straying back to the topics I’ve sworn not to think about. So when I get back to the mansion, I don’t go inside—I geta set of keys from the garage, jump behind the wheel of one of my cars, and go ripping right back off the property.
I don’t let myself think about where I’m going. I just drive. Mile after mile of concrete, until the city lights blur back into view and the roads stretch towards the darker side of New York.
When I finally pull up to the warehouse, two of my men are guarding the door. They step aside and give me sharp nods of acknowledgement. “Boss.”
I nod back, then push the heavy doors open. They creak, old and unoiled, a warning to whoever’s inside that their rest is about to be interrupted.
I switch on the lights and see whose night I’m about to make worse.
In the center of the room, two Danilomudakiare tied to chairs. Heads sagging down, faces bloodied beyond recognition, hardly any life in their eyes as they blink against the glare of neon.
One of my men on guard—Oleg—speaks up. “They were sniffing around the docks,” he explains. “We thought you’d want them brought in.”
You thought right.
I look at the bloodied faces of the prisoners. They were caught trying to make a grab on Gubarev territory, now of all times. Stupid fucking move, if you ask me.
Of course, they didn’t ask me. That’s why they’re the ones tied to the chairs and I’m the one about to beat the living fuck out of them.
I crack my knuckles and circle the chairs. The prisoners’ clothes seem to ID them as low-level trash, corner men, runner boys, minor couriers. Nothing the Danilos will miss terribly.
But that’s how this war is moving now. Each side takes shots whenever there’s a chance, and then the other side pays it back in full. A slow bleed with no end.
I run a hand over my mouth and think. I’ve already taken out a lot of key Danilo players. But I’ve lost men, too—good men, ones I needed. Worthy soldiers.
Worse, the cops have started to take notice. They can’t ignore this kind of bloodshed on the streets forever, not even with the money I throw at them to look the other way. It’s getting too big. Too fucking loud to stay in the underworld.
I need this war to end, and soon.
Sparing these two would be an option. A gesture of goodwill. It would signal to the Danilos that I’m over the petty squabbling.
But I’ve got no goodwill to spare for the likes of them. Not now, not ever.
And tonight in particular, I’m really fucking pissed.
I snap my fingers. Oleg drags a table closer. On it, we keep everything we need: pliers, a blowtorch, knives, a hammer. Simple tools. Reliable. Just the right amount of rust on them to scare our captives into compliance.
I crouch in front of the first man. His lip is split, one eye swollen shut. When I reach out and grab his chin, he flinches hard enough to nearly topple the chair.
“You want to make this easy?” I offer. “Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t touch these.” I gesture to the arsenal on the table. “One-time deal. Take it or leave it.”
For a second, I think he’ll take it. Disappointment starts spreading through me. I’ve been too generous again. Now, I might not get the kind of release I came here for.
But then the idiot spits blood on my shoe, and my face breaks into a grin.
Wrong fucking answer.
I stretch out a hand. Oleg puts the pliers in my open palm. No need for words.
Good. I’m not in a talking mood tonight.
But this guy’s going to be, and soon.
