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But who the hell is this guy?
“Marco,” I call, as he storms into the apartment, ready to save my ass again. “Pull all this equipment, especially the laptops. I need to see what he’s got on me.”
Twenty minutes later, the guy’s bound and tied to a chair in our torture chamber, as Rafael so lovingly calls it. Really, it’s just a soundproof basement in our warehouse, but it sure feels like a torture chamber sometimes.
I watch him through the one-way mirror as I roll up my shirtsleeves.
“Never seen him before,” I comment when Uncle Joe joins me. Someone must have called him and pulled him out of bed for this. “Have you?”
“Looks too skinny and clean-cut to be mafia.” He smirks, squinting at the guy.
He’s right. This guy looks like he could have been one of my classmates at Yale.
“Well, let’s see if he talks,” I growl, throwing the door open and stomping inside. He doesn’t even look at me, choosing to keep his gaze trained on the bloody floor instead.
I pull in a deep breath and step into my alter-ego—Enzo “Golden Ace” Cavalli.
“What’s your name?” I try first, circling him slowly.
He’s quiet, as I expected. I grip his shoulder, gouging my finger into the bullet wound, and he screams in agony, writhing on the wooden chair.
“What about now? Feel like sharing your name?” I ask, grinning in his face like a maniac. “Or should I try to pull it out of you again?”
“Fuck,” he moans, low and animalistic as my finger slides out of the bullet hole. “Arkadiy.”
I note the accent and the foreign-sounding name. Joe meets my eyes across the room, noticing it as well.
“Full name,” I command. When he doesn’t speak, I reach for his shoulder again.
“Arkadiy Chernekov,” he spits at me.
“And what the hell do you want from me?”
“I don’t know you,” he grinds out.
“I think you do, Mr. Chernekov,” I drawl, placing myself casually in the chair across from him. “You’ve been calling me, sending me strange messages, breaking into my house, haven’t you?”
He smirks, his eyes filled with disgust and a glimmer of fear.
“I’ll give you a choice today.” I grin, leaning over to get in his face. “If you tell me what the hell you want, I’ll give you mercy and put a bullet between your eyes right now, nice and quick.”
“And if I don’t?” he growls at me.
“Well, then we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.” I snap my fingers.
Marco takes his cue and walks over to the empty metal pool in the corner of the basement. He cranks the cold water and starts filling it up nonchalantly. A few of the cousins walk in, holding bags of ice.
He stares as they dump the ice into the pool, a mixture of fascination and fear in his eyes.
“So, what’ll it be?” I ask, affectionately slapping his knee with my hand as if we’re old friends.
“Like I said,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, “I don’t know you. I don’t give a fuck about you. I’m just doing a job.”
“Well, well, well, we’re getting somewhere now,” I exclaim, hopping up from the chair. I circle around him, leaning close to his ear. My finger slides gently across his shoulder, hovering near the bullet wound again, and he twitches wildly with fear. “Who do you work for?’
“The8.”
“No shit, asshole,” I growl into his ear. “Who is The8?”