“Two tequilas, please. One for me and one for the pretty little lady at the end of the bar. But give it fifteen minutes.”
The bartender looks at me strangely but nods as I hand him a fifty-dollar bill, and then I turn to the man beside me. He’s red in the face after being ignored.
“Did you not hear me the first time?” he bites out in a Scottish accent.
I offer a charismatic smile. “I’m going to make this very quick. You remained loyal to the Armanis, which is the only smart thing you’ve done thus far. Give me the name of the man who approached you, and you walk away alive.”
His eyes widen, and his gaze finally dips to the inside of my leather jacket, where the handle of my gun pokes out. I’m not a fan of guns. Although I know how to use them and am a decent shot, I get far more pleasure from cutting open my victims little by little. But I realize it’s not the gun that's caught his attention; it’s my leather pouch.
“You’re The Doc, aren’t you?” He goes a shade paler as he licks his lips and looks at his drink. “I was told one of Mr. Armani's men would visit me, but I didn’t think it’d be you.”
“What gave me away? My ridiculous good looks?”
The man seems stunned by the rhetorical question and licks his lips again, unsure how to answer. “Rumor has it, The Doc’s in town, working for Luca Armani. A charismatic chap with a dimple when he smiles, but death promised in his gaze. It’s said he carries around a leather pouch with scalpels, and he uses them to dissect anyone who crosses him.”
“I’m flattered my reputation precedes me.”
He worriedly side-eyes me. “I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire. So as long as you promise my name won’t be mentioned, I’ll give you the fella you’re looking for.” The man points his grubby finger to a door behind the bar. “The head chef. His name is Pavel Smirnov. He was the one who approached me.”
I charm a smile. “See, making friends isn’t that difficult. Thank you for your assistance,” I say as I hand over an envelope of cash. Although I find torturing much more fun than paying someone off, this was the quickest way, especially when I can possibly use this asshole in the future.
“And a tequila shot for my friend here too,” I say to the bartender as I clasp a hand on the man’s shoulder and then round the bar toward the kitchen. When I glance at Romi, she drops her head, pulling down the hoodie.
Absolutely adorable.
A man barges past me in a white apron but says nothing as he pulls out a cigarette, the door he came out of swinging. I instinctively know it’s not the man I'm after. Then I see the chef, a hulking man with tattoos skating up his arms. He definitely looks like the type to be sticking his nose into business that doesn’t concern him.
Rage music is playing, and it excites me, because it’ll muffle his screams.
I lean against the back wall of the kitchen, waiting for him to turn around and notice me; he’s cutting raw chicken on a counter.
When I get bored waiting, I say, “Hello,” and he spins around, raising the blade in my direction. Oh boy, this is going to be fun.
“I heard you’ve been dealing in weapons. Turns out my boss doesn’t like that, and I’m here to put a stop to it. I am curious, however, as to who else is working with you.” Those who purchase weapons from anyone besides the Armani’s within the boundaries of their territory are as good as traitors.
The man actually has the audacity to laugh, his fat belly jiggling under his white apron.
“And they sent a pipsqueak like you?” he scoffs.
My eyes narrow. I’ve been called a lot of things, but pipsqueak is new. If this moron, whose eyes are dilated—from drugs or fear or excitement—could read a room, he’d know that it's very unfortunate to be caged with a predator.
A burger patty sizzles on the grill beside him, and I make a note of the spatula that rests nearby.
“I ain’t telling you shit,” he says, baring his teeth. “And fuck the Armanis.”
Today, he chose violence.
Goody.
He leaps for me, knife first, and I dodge it, happily grabbing the first pan I find and smash it over his head. He keels over with the force, slicing the knife through the air as he tries to get his bearings. I kick him in the stomach, forcing him back, as his hand slides through the raw chicken, and I throw a plate at his face. It shatters, porcelain pieces splintering all over the room.
My smile widens as I grab his hand and slam it onto the grill. He screams, trying to bring the knife down on me, but I elbow his forearm, knocking the blade out of his grip. Then I grab thespatula and, using its edge, sever his finger. He howls, the sound more poetic to me than the rage music that’s currently playing.
Blood pools onto the floor as I twist his arm awkwardly behind his back and shove his face down so it hovers just inches over the surface of the grill. He’s screaming, begging me to stop. But the truth is, I never want to stop. I only remember sometimes that Ihaveto.
“Give me the answers I’ve come for, and we can make this easier. Give me the names of your clients. And I’m especially interested in whether you have a new boss.”
“Fyodor Novikov! His name's Fyodor Novikov!” he screams. Oh, that was much easier than I thought it would be.
