"The source in the house confirmed it." Yuri's voice crackles through the speaker. "Aria Sartori arrived this evening. That's all he had."
"Okay." I end the call and pocket the phone.
Aria Sartori's arrival means nothing to me right now but I need to know everything and Yuri does his job.
"Boss." Viktor catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "We're here."
The warehouse sits at the edge of our territory. An unremarkable building that's witnessed more confessions than any church in Chicago. I step out.
Inside, the smell hits first. Blood. Sweat. Piss. The holy trinity of fear.
Igor meets me at the door, his expression grim. "He still hasn't talked. Sergei worked on him for three hours. Nothing."
I roll my sleeves to my elbows, exposing the tattooed text on my forearms. Bible verses. My mother's favorites. She would have hated what I use these hands for now.
"Show me."
The man hangs from chains in the center of the room, stripped to his underwear. Mid-thirties, built like someone who thought muscles would save him. His face is a mess—split lip, swollen eye, broken nose. Sergei's handiwork decorates his torso in purple and black.
Amateur hour.
I grab a metal chair and drag it across the concrete, the screech making the man flinch. Good. He's still responsive.
I sit backwards on the chair, arms crossed over the back, studying him like he's a problem to solve. Because he is.
"You know who I am?"
He spits blood onto the floor. "Fuck you."
"That's not an answer." I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light it, taking my time. The smoke curls toward the ceiling. "Let me explain your situation. You were selling product withourmark. The double-headed eagle. That mark means something. It means quality. It means protection. It means anyone who buys it knows exactly what they're getting."
I stand, leaving the cigarette burning in my fingers.
"Your product was garbage. Cut with fentanyl. Three people died last week." I crouch in front of him, close enough to see theterror dilating his pupils. "That's three deaths connected to my family's name. Do you understand what that costs us?"
"I don't know anything," he wheezes. "I just sold what they gave me."
"Who?"
"I can't—they'll kill me."
I laugh. The sound echoes off the concrete walls, cold and empty.
"They'llkill you?" I stand, taking a long drag of the cigarette. "Moy drug, you're already dead. The only question is how long it takes."
I press the cigarette into his shoulder.
His scream bounces off the walls, high and desperate. The smell of burning flesh mingles with the blood and fear.
"Who supplied you?"
The man laughs.
"I won't talk," he says, the words wet and thick. "They'll use my family. My wife. My kids. You thinkthis—" He gestures with his chin toward his ruined body. "—is worse than watching them suffer?"
I take another drag of the cigarette. Patient. Waiting.
"But one thing's clear, Baganov." He grins through broken teeth. "You're a fucking idiot."
