Page 97 of Filthy Little Fix
"Are you afraid ofpictures, Sal?" I say. I take a slow step toward him. He cringes.
I lean down, bringing myself level with him, and he tries to pull away. Cornered. I see sweat running down his face, hiscrooked glasses sliding down his nose, his pupils dilated with fear.
"Today, Sal, I saw a man, alive and conscious, with both legs broken and every one of his fingers torn off. His jaw broke on the second kick. It hung loose. And even then, he tried to speak. I couldn't understand a damn thing. We cut his knee tendon like it was rubber. He still tried to stand. Thought he was going to escape. Do you know how many pieces we sent him to the Malakovs in, Sal?"
Sal lets out a low moan. He doesn't have the courage to look at me. The smell of his sweat is acidic, soaking the cheap T-shirt clinging to his body. His chest rises and falls too fast. He can't answer.
"Seven," I say. "He was still blinking when we decapitated him. The head was last. And you're telling me you snitched because of a fuckingpicture?"
He sobs.
"Almosttwenty yearsunder our protection, Sal. And all the Malakovs needed was to show you a picture for you to forget all that."
He stutters, makes a choked sound of crying and panic. I'm barely able to understand what he's saying. "D-Dante, please... I've always been loyal..."
And he calls meDante. The intimacy he thinks he has the right to use makes me nauseous.
I grip his jaw tightly. He lets out a terrified grunt, trying to merge with the wall, and his skin reddens. I feel his bones at my fingertips.
"You don't call me Dante, you pathetic little shit," I say through clenched teeth, forcing him to look at me. "You traded a boy who would doyourjob with his eyes closed and one hand behind his back to protect yourself. He's worth ten of you. Lookat the fucking time you're making me waste, Sal. You have no way to repay that, huh?"
He tries to move his head. I hold it so it hurts. He cries like a bastard.
Sal has been under our protection for so long that Svetlana placed him as one of the last items on a list of suspects—people with internal access to our systems. He knew my father, for fuck's sake, had a degree from the best university in the United States paid for bymyfamily. A poor skinny kid from Brighton Beach making a living because ofus.
We always knew Sal was a coward. He doesn't participate in violence, he cowers in heavy meetings, and he's never carried a weapon. But this was seen as a quality for his job. No one needed him to be a killer, just to be loyal.
I let go of him with a shove, but I don't step away.
"You're going to tell me where they took him," I say. I pull one of his wrists close—thin, pale, and weak. He trembles, tempted to pull his hand away. I squeeze it. "The address. The security details. Everything." I slide my hand to his pinky finger. I hold it between the joints. The bones are thin. "Or I'll break this finger. And then the next. And the next. Until you can no longer type a single line of code for the rest of your useless life."
His hand shakes. I hold it firmly, pressing his pinky upward, listening to him breathe fast and heavy.
I lean in. "Where is he?"
"A warehouse!" he screams immediately. His voice breaks with intensity, and he continues, choked, "Newark! Near the shipyard! I'll give you the address! I know the security flaws, I know how it works!"
He spits out the address, the coordinates, the details about camera positions, all in a desperate torrent of information. I let him speak.
When he finally falls silent, gasping, looking at me with miserable hope, I squeeze his finger a little more.
"Good boy, Sal."
I press. The sound of the bone breaking is dry.
He only screams when I move away. I straighten up, smooth the lapels of my suit—this time, not covered in blood.
"That was for wasting my time."
I leave Sal writhing on the floor, holding a crooked finger against his chest, pressing it as if it would help somehow. I turn to Luca. I nod at him, and he walks to the sobbing wretch on the floor.
"Please... Dante... please..." Sal groans.
I open the door. Luca pulls him up by his shirt and carries him like a sack of potatoes behind me.
"Let's go for a walk, Sal," I say before lighting a cigarette.
I leaninto the front seat. The leather creaks. Sal flinches, even though I haven't touched him. I ignore his pathetic fear and press the cold barrel of my Vektor against the base of his skull. He lets out a low whimper.
