He attacked my wife.
The stench taints the air. I raise the handkerchief to my nose again and pace toward the table, studying the remains.
He brought this upon himself.
Which is unfortunate, considering what this means.
A problem—a huge problem. Whatever caporegimes might have rebelled against Felix aren’t going to be keen on joining me, now that I’ve whacked one of their precious Bernadetti kids.
As far as they’re concerned, Liya isn’t just my wife anymore.
She’s my hostage.
You dumb motherfucker, I think as I look down at what remains of Jonas.
All you had to do was keep your head down and trust that I’d get things done. All you had to do was wait.
He could have been granted another year of life at the very least. He could have spent time with his sister. Shit, I would have been more than generous enough at that point to extend some time for him to meet his nephew. Or niece.
But no. He signed his death warrant the moment he decided to show his ass.
The moment he decided to lay hands onmywife.
And I know there’s another mess coming.Zoya. I close my eyes, adjusting the handkerchief over my nose.She’ll find out, and then she’s going to cry to Daddy about it.
So much for gaining Kiril as an ally. Vengeance will be the only thing on the menu once he hears about Jonas. I guarantee it.
With a grunt, I crumple the handkerchief in my hand and step closer to the table.
“Kostya, Stepan—we need to switch tactics.”
Kostya stands upright, wiping his hands on the butcher’s apron he’s wearing. “More security?”
I shake my head. “No. More than that.” I walk toward the bars and clear my throat. “Boys, a moment of your time.”
I hear the clink of instruments meeting the metal tray behind me. Kostya and Stepan join the others, lining up in front of the bars in a group. I walk to the entrance and lean in the doorway while shaking out the handkerchief.
“We’re switching to wartime footing,” I state. “Be prepared for anything. Stay armed. Stay in groups. We’re going to face a lot of heat because of this bullshit.”
Nods of agreement erupt through the room. Stepan crosses his arm with dangerous familiarity, adrenaline still coursing from the events upstairs. Kostya has blood streaks on his face and dark stains on his white undershirt. And as I stare into the eyes of every other man there, I see the same thing.
The capacity within all men to commit terrible violence.
I gesture behind me. “Go out in teams. Each group takes some of the body. Dispose of the remains quickly and quietly.”
More nods of agreement.
The heavy air thickens, almost blocking out all the oxygen I need for my next sentence, “I’m going upstairs.”
As I pass Stepan, I pat his shoulder twice, silently passing the torch to him. His voice breaks through the silence behind him as I ascend the stairs.
“Gennadiy, take team one—”
The basement door creaks shut. I shake the handkerchief, the smell of eucalyptus wafting from the fabric along with a lingering pungency that I can only assume clings to the fibers because of where I have been for the past thirty minutes.
As I pass through the lobby, I consider stopping by my office. There’s vodka in there. And fresh air.
But I want to go home. I want to see Liya. I want to see if she’s okay.