Page 84 of Filthy Little Fix
"If I have to correct you again, you won't have another hand left to use."
I release him. He stumbles back, swallowing a sob, trying to hide the tremor in his breath as he clutches his arm to his chest. He doesn't even try to talk back. Smart of him.
The civilian retreats with his wife still in his arms, unsure of what to do. He wasn't supposed to experience this. Neither of them.
I move on. I don't have time to babysit.
As I cross the room, our target Viktor Orlov's security guards finally appear. Too late. My men, who came in from the flanks, neutralize them with silent efficiency. The sound of the suppressors is almost lost in the noise of the destruction.
I head for the back kitchen. The smell of garlic and pork is suffocating. Viktor, member of the Malakovs, is there, held in a chair by two of my men, a chair he surely never even managed to get out of. Sweat is pouring down his face.
"Dante," Viktor says, his voice trying to be firm. "This is a mistake. We can talk."
Talk. We have done business together in the distant past. Peaceful business with a white façade, waiting for the moment to stab each other again.
I study him. The same arrogance I remember. This time, withfearunderneath. For a second, a dirty, familiar thought crosses my mind: the urge to see that arrogance shatter, to hear the sound his bones would make. My father's voice, a rotten echo in the back of my mind, whispering about how pain is the only universal language.
"Where is he?" I ask.
Viktor swallows hard. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I sigh. I grab a steak knife from the table. Polished steel. I pull a chair up in front of him and sit, with Grigory at my back. "Let's talk like men, Viktor. I'll ask again:where is he?"
Viktor stays quiet. He looks at my men, notes that we're surrounded. He lets out a sound that betrays his desperation.
"I-It was an order from above, Dante. I… I had nothing to do with it," he stammers.
"Nobody ever has."
With a nod, my men grab him, forcing him against the table, knocking over glasses and plates. Porcelain shatters on the floor as one of them presses the barrel of a gun against Viktor's temple. I spin the steak knife between my fingers. Viktor breathes heavily. He spits out pleas in our native tongue.
"Dante. Dante.Radi Boga, pozhaluysta, ya prosto rabotal, ya nichego ne znayu, Dante, pozhaluysta, umolyayu?—"
"It's always an order from above, isn't it, Viktor?" I interrupt his pathetic pleas.
He glares at me from the table, red from exertion and panic. "This is different, Dante. I'm a businessman. An accountant. I don't deal with… withthis kindof field operation."
I lean in, the tip of the knife now lightly touching the skin of his cheek. He flinches. He can't go anywhere.
"Your family…" I say. "Your daughter, the one studying art in Florence… she has your smile. It would be a shame if her tuition funding were to dry up. Or if something were to happen to her. Florence is beautiful, but it can be a dangerous place for a girl living alone."
There it is. The pure, absolute terror blooms in his eyes. The businessman facade crumbles, and all that's left is a cornered animal. Family is something we all fear losing, no matter who is considered as such. If he knows anything aboutmyasset's state, it's now he sings.
He starts to cry, spitting out more Russian words, begging for the love of God.
"Ne nado, radi Boga, ne trogay yeyo?—"
I grab his swollen cheeks. I dig my fingers into the flesh until it hurts.
"I have a friend there," I say, leaning closer to that rancid breath. "Near her building. She likes to walk home late with her earbuds in, never looking up. And Florence is full of alleys."
"I don't know anything! I swear!" he exclaims. "I just—I just know it's a hacker, that's all! A-A man, a young man!"
I let go of his disgusting face. He cries Russian prayers. That Nyx isa young manis fucking useless information.
I crack my knuckles. Whether he knows more or not, we've come to do somethingelsewith his repugnant existence.
As I twirl the knife between my fingers, I hear a sound. Distant, but unmistakable. Sirens.
