Page 115 of Between Us

Screams of agony rang out across the vast emptiness of the warehouse with the eerie cadence of a horror scene stuck on repeat. The man’s body jerked forward with each cut into his mutilated flesh, eyes bulging out and a bloody mouth opened wide to sing his pain.

When Dimitri took a step back to admire his handiwork, there was finally some silence.

That didn’t last long though.

“P-please!” Arsen yelled hoarsely, barely able to form the words anymore. “I-I don't know anything.”

Roman blew out a cloud of smoke, watching the man’s body swing into the thick chains, hanging from the ceiling like meat in a butcher’s shop. They’d been at it for the past hour or so, but the bastard was more resilient than they’d given him credit for.

“You see,” he said lazily, throwing the butt to the ground and taking his time to light another cigarette. “Something tells me you're lying, Arsen. You're a slimyprick, but I know Davit trusts you. Even if you weren't directly involved, you know who was. Now, I'm going to ask youagain. Who was behind my father's attack?”

“Roman,” Arsen groaned, his head lolling back, barely hanging on to consciousness. “Mi arek’ sa.”

“Don’t do this?” Roman asked, translating for him. “I have no reason to stop. Give me a reason to stop, and maybe I will.”

Beside Roman, Matteo stood quietly, his suit jacket hanging from the crook of his arm, despite the biting wind haunting the old industrial building. Two Outfit soldiers lingered by the entrance, along with Stepan and other Bratva men. Unsurprisingly, instead of gracing them with his presence, Nero Rossetti had sent his son to supervise things. Like Vitaly, the Italian Don had become complacent in his old days, and he didn't get his hands dirty unless absolutely necessary.

Taking another drag from his cigarette, Roman gestured to Dimitri that he could resume what he'd been doing. The newly-named Brigadier nodded and quietly went back to his task. Turning the knife in his hand, he cut a deep line from Arsen's sternum to his bellybutton. The horrible scream that followed made Matteo let out some sort of noise.

Roman turned to him, noticing the greenish hue in his complexion. “Problem?”

“This is taking too fucking long,” Matteo muttered, eyes still set on Arsen’s writhing form.

Roman felt slightly amused by his companion's obvious discomfort. Apparently, Matteo wasn't a fan of torture. Not that Roman was either, but he could stomach it when necessary. “He’ll talk eventually. As you can see, Dimitri is very skilled with the knife.”

“I can see that alright.”

Looking at the younger man, it occurred to Roman that he could see the similarities between his wife and her brother. Even the small, vertical line that formed between her eyebrows when she scowled, he could now see mirrored on Matteo's face. Something about that didn’t sit well with him.

He gave his head a slight shake, his attention going back to where it needed to be.

Less than five minutes later, they finally had what they wanted. Good thing too, because Matteo looked on the verge of throwing up his guts on the dirty cement floor.

“It was us! I-it was us!” Arsen sputtered breathlessly, blood dripping from his mouth. “Da menk’ eink’.”

Roman signaled Dimitri to stop. “I want names.”

“T-tigran and Hovak.”

“They stole Nero Rossetti's car?”

Arsen barely managed a nod. The man was half-dead already.

Roman put out his cigarette, crushing the butt with the tip of his polished shoe. He buttoned up his suit jacket. “What’s Davit’s end game here? Hmm? What does he want?”

When the Armenian just hung limply from the chains, his gaze lowered to the bloody floor beneath him, Roman walked up to him and slapped his cheek to bring him around. He groaned, barely able to open his eyes to half-mast. “Tell me the truth,” Roman demanded. “Davit's plan.”

Arsen let out a shaky breath, his eyelids fluttering in Matteo's direction though he couldn’t keep his gaze there. “H-he wants y-you out. Both of you.”

“Why?” Roman slapped him again. “Eyes on me.”

“Hates you,” was all he could get out. “Traitor. He… scum.”

Roman understood enough. Russians were traitors and Italians were scum. Davit had decided to rule Chicago by himself. Nothing shocking there. It seemed that the young Rossetti turning a deeper shade of green a few feet away had been right all along.

Seeing as Arsen wasn’t going to last more than a few minutes, Roman gave Dimitri the order. “Finish him off.”

“No.” The chains rattled as Arsen jerked against his restrains with the last bit of energy left in his dying body. “P-please!”

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