For now.
The door opens.
Dashamir Dervishi steps inside, closing it quietly behind him. He’s in short sleeves with no jacket, and he moves with that same eerie stillness I noticed at the fight. Those pale eyes sweep over me once, cataloging damage like a doctor assessing a patient.
“Vincenzo Vici.” He says my name like he’s confirming an appointment. “I’m glad you’re awake. I was beginning to worry I’d have to wait.”
“No chainsaws?” I ask, faking bravado.
Dashamir doesn’t deign to answer my question.
He pulls up a chair and sits across from me, close enough that our knees almost touch.
“Let me be clear about our situation,” he says, his voice soft, almost melodic. “You’re here because you came into myterritory, crashed my celebration, stole from us, and lied to our faces. You want my guns, don’t you?”
“My fucking guns.”
“Your guns,” he agrees politely. “Which are now mine. Redistribution of resources from a dying family to one that’s building something better.”
I laugh, and it hurts. “Better. That’s what you call this?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No shame. “The Vicis, Montonis, Barones, and Lucanias have held this city hostage for generations. Corruption, violence, feuds that kill innocent people while you play your power games. The Dervishis are bringing order to chaos.”
“Is that what you call torturing people in basements?”
“When necessary.” He stands, walks to the table, runs his fingers along the tools laid out there. Not selecting one. Just considering. He picks up a long metal needle, examines it, and sets it down.
“Someone has to be the monster,” he continues quietly. “Someone has to be willing to bloody their hands. I accepted that role for my family.”
“How noble of you.”
“Two months ago,” Dashamir continues, returning to his chair and sitting close to me once more, “four Dervishi soldiers were sent in pursuit of you, the last surviving member of the Vici family. They were never seen alive again. Their bodies were all found dead in a laundromat.” He pauses, watching me intently. “There was a witness. A woman. Her bloody footprints were at the scene.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and his dark hair falls over one of his eyes.
“The woman you brought to the fight. Was that the same woman?”
The conversational way he speaks makes my chest tighten. I force my expression to stay neutral, but my jaw clenches before I can stop it.
Dashamir’s eyes sharpen. He saw it.
“Interesting.” He tilts his head, and now he’s focused on me with a predator’s intensity. “Who is she?”
“She’s no one.”
A cold smile touches his lips.
Getting to his feet, he grips my hair and drives his fist into my face. Pain explodes in my nose. His next blow lands on my mouth, and I feel my lips slice against my teeth.
The next four blows are all aimed at my stomach and aching ribs. Nausea swells in my throat, and I fight the urge to throw up as Dashamir’s brutal blows hammer my aching body and blood fills my mouth.
He stands and circles me, and I collapse forward, gasping for air. Fighting for breath through the pain. I can only hear his soft footsteps on concrete.
“What I want to know is why you have not killed the man who murdered your family. There can be no doubt who the perpetrator was, and yet he still lives. If I had such evidence…”
His eyes flash, and his jaw flexes.
There’s a story there. A wound. But he doesn’t elaborate.
