“Really?” I flip the folding chair to sit across from him, pull out my phone, and swipe to the photo that had been sent to me two nights ago. The intel that had pulled me from that goddamn awkward dinner, from Emmanuel and Chloe. “Because this is your car, isn’t it? Black Audi, license plate 4XR-7829. And this —” I swipe again. “— is surveillance footage from the street where my son was taken. Same car. Your car.”
He doesn’t bother to look at the screen as I shove it in his face, his eyes full of fury as he continues to stare me down over the phone.
“Prove it.”
“Oh, I can do better than that.” I pocket the phone and stand, moving to the table, picking up two pairs of brass knuckles, slipping one on each hand. “I can prove you were driving it. The traffic cameras caught your face clear as day. You even looked straight at one of them. Cocky bastard.”
His sneer falters as I turn back to face him.
“So, here’s how this is going to work.” I flex my fingers over the brass knuckles as I stare down at him. “You’re going to tell me who hired you. Where you took my son. And why they wanted him. Tell me those things, and maybe you’ll walk out of here on your own two feet.
He continues to glare at me, giving me nothing.
“Don’t —” I raise my hand, examining the metallic shine of the brass knuckles as I roll my hand into a fist, striking out like a viper across Dimitri’s right cheek before finishing, “— and I make no promises.”
He spits out blood as his head rolls to the side, laughing as he recovers quicker than I’d anticipated. “I’ll give you nothing, Cierro.”
“Then you’re going to be here for a very long time.”
Omero steps forward from where he’s been standing against the wall, his massive frame blocking out the doorway. On either side of him, two of my other men — Marco and Gio — watch with cold professional detachment. This isn’t their first interrogation.
“Want me to handle this one?” Omero asks.
I consider it for the briefest of moments. Omero’s efficient. Brutal when necessary. His ability to control his emotions better than mine on the worst of days.
But this is personal.
“No. This one’s mine.”
The second punch lands square on the left side of his jaw, snapping his head to the right. The brass knuckles split open his lip, blood dribbling down his beard.
He spits red onto the concrete and laughs again. “That all you got? My babushka hits harder than that.”
The next hit breaks his nose. I feel the cartilage crunch under my hand and watch the blood pour from his nasal cavity. He howls, jerking against his restraints, anger outriding the pain.
“Who hired you?” I ask calmly.
“Fuck. You.”
“No thanks, you’re not my type.”
The next punch is straight to his ribs. Not hard enough to break them — yet — but hard enough to make breathing painful. He wheezes, doubling over in the chair.
I squat down, getting face-to-face with him once more. “Who. Hired. You.”
“I don’t —” Wheeze. “— know what —” Gasp. “— you’re talking about.”
Taking a deep breath, I contemplate the situation at hand, studying him. This isn’t working. He’s too seasoned, too well-trained to break from a simple beating. He’ll let me hit him until he’s passed out before giving me anything.
I need to come at this from a different angle.
“Omero, untie him.” It’s a command.
“Boss?”
“You heard me. Untie him.”
I stand and move back as Omero moves forward, slicing through the binds with his knife with quick efficiency. Dimitri slumps forward, catching himself halfway to his knees, hands braced on the concrete floor.
