I shrugged, then I broke the finger.
This time he screamed. Short, bitten off, but real. The sound bounced off the concrete walls and came back changed, flattened, the acoustic signature of a room built for sounds that weren't meant to leave it.
“Let’s not keep this going, brother. I hold no malice to you. I know you were just doing a job. I respect you. But it’s enough. No-one is coming to save you. Talk to me.”
He locked eyes with me, and then, he talked.
His name was Vladimir. The words came in bursts, Russian-accented English, each sentence bought with a breath that shook. Detroit. Stanislov crew—a mid-tier bratva operation that took contract work, freelance, no permanent affiliations. He'd been hired through a cutout. Three layers of separation between him and whoever was paying. Cash. Forty thousand for the job, half up front, half on completion.
The job: retrieve the woman first. The laptop second. If retrieval wasn't possible, elimination was acceptable.
The word sat in the room.
Acceptable.
Her death, filed under acceptable. A line item. A contingency clause in a contract written by someone who'd never seen her face, never watched her sleep with her fists clenched against her chest, never felt her body soften against his for two seconds before the walls went back up.
"The cutout," I said. My voice was level. "Describe him."
American. White. Forties, maybe older. Thin build, receding hairline, wore glasses—wire frames, round. Met Vladimir once, at a diner. Paid in hundreds, banded, in a brown paper bag that looked like a lunch. The man had a phone—a burner, a number Vladimir recited from memory, each digit delivered with thecareful precision of someone who understood that useful information was the only currency that might buy his continued existence.
The number was dead. I knew it would be. But dead numbers left traces—carrier records, activation points, tower pings. Nico's people could work with traces.
"The Stanislov crew," I said. "Who's your handler?"
A name. Arkady. Last name unpronounceable, which I filed phonetically and would sort out later. Arkady ran the contract side of the Detroit operation—intake, assignment, payment. A middleman's middleman. Another layer.
I sat back. Looked at him. His left hand was ruined—the two broken fingers swelling already, the skin darkening, his whole arm trembling with the sustained effort of not moving. His face was grey. He was done. Not because he'd chosen to cooperate, but because his body had made the choice for him, the way bodies always did when the cost of silence exceeded the cost of speech.
I stood. Pushed the chair back.
"Someone will set those fingers," I said. "You'll be here until we verify what you've told me. If it checks out, you go home."
He looked at me with his one open eye. Didn't believe me. Didn't need to.
Still. It was the truth.
Upstairs,inawindowlessroom, my brothers were waiting.
Dante sat. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the forearm—his version of casual, which still looked like a man posing for a magazine about people who controlled things. Marco was leaning against the far wall with a paper cup of coffee, his phone in his otherhand, his thumb scrolling with the idle rhythm of someone who was always reading something.
I sat. Gave them what Vladimir gave me.
Detroit. Stanislov crew. Bratva, freelance, no permanent affiliations—a contract operation that hired out muscle the way a temp agency hired out data entry, except the work involved zip ties and suppressed firearms instead of spreadsheets. Vladimir had been hired through a cutout. Three layers of separation. Cash payment, forty thousand, half up front. The job was the woman first, the laptop second. If retrieval wasn't possible —
"Elimination was acceptable," I said. The word came out flat. I made it flat. What the word did to the inside of my chest was not Dante's business or Marco's business or anyone's business.
Dante's expression didn't change. But I knew my brother. The stillness that settled over him was a particular kind—not relaxed, not waiting. Processing. The don's brain running calculations that the rest of us wouldn't see until the results arrived fully formed and non-negotiable.
"The burner's dead," I continued. "Number's here." I slid the paper across the table. "Nico's running carrier traces. Vladimir's handler is a man called Arkady, Detroit side. The cutout who briefed him was American — white, forties, glasses, thin. Met once at a diner."
Marco's thumb stopped scrolling.
"The sedan," he said. He pushed off the wall, pulled out a chair, sat with the fluid economy of a man who made every movement look like an afterthought. "Plate came back to a rental. Corporate account, billed to a company called Northlake Consulting Group out of Delaware. Shell. Registered eighteen months ago, single director, nominee name. Nico's still pulling the threads."
He set his phone on the table. The screen showed a document — dense text, corporate filings, the particular visual boredom of legal paperwork that concealed criminal architecture.
"But here's the thing." Marco's voice shifted. The casual register dropped half a note, the way it did when the nightclub brother remembered he was also a Caruso. "The Stanislov crew. I ran them backwards. They've done contract work twice in the last three years — once in 2021, once in 2023. Both times the clients were routed through intermediaries. Marketing firms, consulting groups, the kind of businesses that exist on paper and in rented mailboxes and nowhere else."
