Page 86 of Filthy Little Fix

That's all it takes. He draws his weapon, the suppressor already in place. A muffled pop, and Viktor's head hangs limp.

I wipe the knife on the tablecloth.

"Leave him there," I command. "The house special."

I walk out the back. I can hear Walsh mumbling outside, behind the police tape, talking to other uniformed officers. Looking in every respect like the detective in charge of a horrific crime scene.

I find the men from the dining room by the Escalade, two blocks down.

"If it weren't for you, boss, that rat in a suit would be in the trunk by now," Marco says, lighting a cigarette as he gets in the car.

I do the same, and the others follow. Nobody really likes working with cops.

"The little State detective thinks he's in charge," another complains.

"A pig is a pig," Vinny, who has been quiet since the restaurant, mutters under his breath, holding his wrist against his chest.

Marco hits the gas. Grigory, in the front seat, looks at me in the rearview mirror, nervous. He can sense it's not a good day to bust my balls, and he's waiting for my reaction. But I don't say anything about Walsh. Walsh is nothing more than an expensive, annoying tool.

Vinny tries to adjust his arm in the back seat without making a sound. He fails. A low groan, almost a hiss, escapes as he moves.

The car falls silent. Everyone hears it.

I see his reflection in the rearview mirror, in the back seats.

"How's the wrist, Vinny?" I say.

Grigory glances at me in the mirror again. Marco turns to face the window.

Vinny swallows hard. Everyone's eyes flicker to him.

"I... I think it's broken, boss," he stammers, his voice like a boy who just took a ball to the face and is holding back tears. He's probably expecting an order to go to our doctor, maybe a twisted word of comfort. He's too young. He doesn't understand yet.

I take a drag from my cigarette. Dunhill.Nyx.

"Good," I say.

Vinny doesn't reply.

The itch under my skin returns. I see Vinny flinch. It's stronger now.Nyx. His eyes never leave the inside of my eyelids. Nyx, away from me.

We still have nothing concrete. Just a body hanging like a side of beef.

Nyx.

That he's scared right now is unlikely. He's not afraid of a fucking thing. Bored, maybe. Thrown in some dusty basement with nothing to do, or getting beaten, taking hits for not knowing how to shut his fucking mouth. And I will kill anyone who lays a finger on him with my own two hands.

Nyx. In pain? Beaten, forced into some unknown place. Orturned on?

I clench my fists. The mere thought makes me want todestroysomeone, to go back to that restaurant, dismember every one of Viktor's organs and make Walsh regret selling himself to someone so inhuman. Nyx gets off on danger, on threats. Would he be barking back at the head of the Malakovs? Moaning for a punch, working forthemnow?

I crush the cigarette. It's a reflex. The men beside me shrink away, trying to give me space.

And what if,right now, he's swearing some sick love to someone else? Someone who gives in to the opportunistic violence he begs for,morethan I do. Fuck.Fuck.

"Faster, Marco," I order through gritted teeth. Marco speeds up, pushing past the speed limit, and I see the tension in his shoulders.

No. We haven't had any cyberattacks, nothing to alert us or imply that Nyx has turned against us. But hecoulddo it. I know he could. Attack without being detected. With one order, one well-placed fucking pull of his hair, he'd do it,moaning.