“Giving up already?” He rasps out.
“Here’s the deal, Dimitri,” I say, pulling off one set of brass knuckles and tossing them to the floor in front of him. “I’m notgoing to beat a helpless man. That’s not how I do business. So I’m going to give you a choice.”
He looks at me, curiosity in his eyes. “And what’s that?”
“Pick up those knuckles, get up off the ground, and fight me fair, one on one. If you win, you walk out of here. Free. But if I win, you tell me everything you know.”
He grabs the brass knuckles and pushes himself to his feet, swaying as he slips them onto his hand in one practiced motion. Calculating. He’s got height on me, longer arms. He’s younger. But I guarantee I’m a better fighter.
“You got a deal,” he spits.
He comes at me fast — faster than I expected. His fist connects with my cheekbone, snapping my head to the side, pain radiating across my face.
Good. I needed that. Proper motivation.
I dodge his next swing, stepping inside his guard as I do so, and drive my fist into his ribs again. He grunts, stumbles, strikes out, and meets air as I duck. I press forward with a jab to his solar plexus, then serve an uppercut to his chin.
“Who hired you?” I ask again, less calmly this time. Circling him as he shakes his head, trying to recover from the last blow.
“Go to hell.”
He tries to tackle me. Coming at me like a charging bull, I sidestep, grabbing his arm and using his own motion to send him crashing into the wall. The impact is wet, with an audible crunch.
When he turns, his forehead is split open, bleeding. The rage on his face and in his body obvious.
“Typical coward.”
“Having skill isn’t cowardice. It’s a strategy,” I reply coldly. “Last chance. Tell me what you know.”
“I’m dead either way.”
“Maybe. But I guarantee if you don’t, what comes next will be worse than death.”
He rushes me again, desperate. I block his wild swing, grab his wrist, and twist. The sound of his shoulder giving is distinct — a pop followed by his scream. Then he goes down on one knee, cradling his arm.
“The car,” I say, standing over him. “Who paid you for the car?”
“I don’t —”
I kick him in the ribs. The ones I’ve already damaged. But he starts laughing, a gurgling husk of a laugh as he looks up at me.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” He spits out more blood. “You think you're so fucking powerful. The great Basili Cierro. The master of control. You’re not so untouchable, you know?”
“Talk,” I growl. “Now.”
“But you can’t protect anyone, can you?” His smile widens, vicious. “Not your wife. Not your son. We took him right from under your nose, and you didn’t even know for hours.”
My vision starts to narrow, red creeping in at the edges.
“And now?” He laughs again, the sound making my hands curl into fists again. “Now we’re watching the girl. The pretty little thing you’ve brought into your home. What do you think we’ll do to her when we get a hold of her, Don Cierro? When we take her just like we took your son?”
Something inside me snaps. I’m on him before I realize I’ve moved. My fist connects with his face once, twice, three times. I feel teeth break under my knuckles, feel his cheekbone give. Blood sprays across my shirt, my hands, the floor.
“Don’t even think about touching her.” The words tear from my throat, raw and savage.
I haul him up by his shirt, slamming him against the wall. Pulling him away just enough to slam him into it again.
“Boss!” Omero’s there in an instant, pulling at me. “Boss, stop! You’re gonna kill him! We still need information, remember.”
