Chapter 5 - A Message Carved in Bone
Viktor fell to his knees beside the ruined sofa,
the terror in his eyes stripping away every shred of the arrogant enforcer he had pretended to be.
On the floor beside him,
Mikhail was whimpering,
his broken knee twisted at an unnatural angle,
blood bubbling between his fractured teeth as he choked on his own agony.
The rest of the warehouse remained utterly frozen,
twenty heavily armed Russian gangsters standing like statues,
paralyzed by the sheer speed and cold brutality they had just witnessed.
Marco racked the bolt of his automatic rifle,
a single,
sharp metallic click that echoed through the vast concrete room like a warning bell.
“Nobody moves,”
Marco said,
his voice flat,
professional,
deadly.
Nobody did.
I stood over Viktor,
tucking my handkerchief back into my breast pocket,
looking down at the shaved head of the man who had ordered Emma Carter beaten.
“The hand,
Viktor,”
I repeated,
my tone never rising above a measured conversational pitch.
“Put it on the table.”
“Dominic...
please,”
Viktor begged,
tears mingling with the sweat running down his hollow cheeks.
“Kolov ordered it!
He told us to find someone wearing your crest!
He wanted to draw you out!
He said you were weak,
that you wouldn't fight back!
I was just following orders,
I swear on my mother’s soul—”
“Your mother should have drowned you in the Volga,”
I replied,
my voice devoid of anger,
which only made it more horrifying.
“You struck an unarmed woman who had never harmed a living thing.
You kicked her while she was lying in the street.
And you told her that I did not own this city.”
I reached down,
gripping Viktor by the collar of his silk shirt,
and hauled him up with one arm,
slamming his right forearm onto the heavy wooden surface of the card table.
His fingers splayed across the wood,
the black ink of the coiled viper staring up under the harsh glare of the bare lightbulb.
Before he could pull away,
my right hand drew a six-inch combat blade from inside my coat,
driving the steel straight through the center of his palm,
pinning his hand deep into the solid oak.
Viktor unleashed a guttural,
bloodcurdling scream,
his body convulsing as the blade anchored him to the wood.
His left hand flailed wildly,
trying to reach the hilt,
but Marco stepped forward,
pressing the freezing barrel of his pistol against the center of Viktor’s forehead.
The Russian froze instantly,
his chest heaving in shallow,
ragged gasps,
snot and saliva dripping from his chin onto the green felt of the table.
“Listen to me very carefully,”
I said,
leaning down until my face was an inch from his twisted,
pain-wracked features.
“You are going to tell me every warehouse,
every offshore account,
and every corrupt official Kolov has purchased in this state.
You are going to give me the codes to his private freight terminal in Elizabeth,
New Jersey.
And when you are finished,
you are going to thank me for allowing you to breathe.”
“I will tell you!”
Viktor screamed,
his voice cracking under the immense agony of the ruined nerves in his palm.
“The freight terminal is registered under Nordline Logistics!
Gate four,
the access code is 8841!
There is a shipment of automatic weapons arriving at three in the morning from Antwerp!
Kolov is at the penthouse on 57th Street!
He has twelve men with him,
all ex-Spetsnaz!
I swear that is everything!
I swear it!”
I listened in silence,
committing every name,
number,
and location to memory.
Satisfied,
I pulled a small silver pen from my pocket and jotted the access code onto a clean napkin.
I tossed the napkin to Marco.
“Burn the terminal,”
I commanded.
“Seize the shipment.
Distribute the weapons among Santino’s crews.”
“Understood,
boss,”
Marco said,
stepping back.
Viktor looked up at me through swollen,
tear-blurred eyes,
hope flickering desperately in his voice.
“You...
you said you would let me live if I told you...”
I looked down at the blade pinning his hand to the wood,
then at the black snake tattoo that had terrified a gentle girl in an alley.
“I said I would let you breathe,”
I corrected him quietly.
“I never said you would keep your hands.”
With a swift,
deliberate motion,
I gripped the handle of the knife,
twisted the steel ninety degrees,
and carved the flesh along the wrist,
slicing clean through the tendons and skin that held the ink of the serpent.
Viktor’s scream died in his throat,
his eyes rolling back into his head as he collapsed from the sheer shock of the pain,
sagging against the table,
held upright only by the steel embedded in the wood.
I turned my back on him,
looking out at the twenty Russian soldiers standing in the gloom.
They were pale,
silent,
and trembling.
“Pick up your wounded,”
I told them,
my voice carrying to the farthest corners of the slaughterhouse.
“Put Viktor in the back of his car.
Drive him to the penthouse on 57th Street.
Carry him through the lobby,
take the elevator to the top floor,
and lay him at Kolov’s feet.”
I paused,
buttoning my coat against the chill of the underground room.
“And tell Kolov,”
I added,
looking into the eyes of a young Russian soldier who could barely hold his rifle,
“that Emma Carter sends her regards.
Tell him that the next time I see that crest torn,
I will not come to collect a hand.
I will tear his empire out by the roots,
salt the earth beneath his family’s graves,
and feed what remains of him to the Hudson River.”
I turned and walked back up the iron stairs,
Marco following close behind.
As we pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the pouring rain of 48th Street,
the cold air felt clean against my skin.
The city lights glowed against the low clouds,
golden and distant,
a sprawling kingdom of glass,
concrete,
and blood.
I climbed into the back of the Suburban,
looking down at my watch.
It was two-thirty in the morning.
May you like
Emma Carter was resting in my home,
her family was safe,
