Page 15 of Shadow Waltz

The problem was, I wasn't sure I knew anymore.

3

KINGDOMS OF SMOKE AND GLASS

LUKA

The screaming had stopped twenty minutes ago, but Vincent Caruso was still breathing. That was the problem with amateurs—they passed out too quickly, robbing you of the satisfaction that came from a job properly finished.

I checked my watch, the Patek Philippe catching the light from the single bare bulb that illuminated the warehouse basement. Gold and steel, precision engineering, the kind of timepiece that cost more than most people made in a year. Time was money, and money was power, and power was the only currency that mattered in the world I'd built from blood and bone.

Vincent hung from chains bolted to the concrete ceiling, his arms stretched above his head at angles that would leave permanent damage if he lived long enough to care. Which he wouldn't. Blood dripped from cuts I'd made, each one designed to cause maximum pain while avoiding major arteries. Theart was in the timing—keeping them conscious long enough to understand why they were dying.

“Wake him up,” I said to Dmitri, who stood in the corner like a statue carved from violence and steroids. He'd been with me for seven years, ever since I'd pulled him out of a Bratva cleanup crew and taught him that loyalty was more profitable than chaos.

Dmitri stepped forward with a bucket of ice water, dumping it over Vincent's head with the casual efficiency of someone watering plants. Vincent jerked awake with a gasp that turned into a whimper when he remembered where he was and why.

“Vincent,” I said, my voice carrying the same tone I might use to discuss the weather. “We were just getting to the interesting part.”

His eyes focused on me with the kind of desperate hope that came from believing that explanation might equal salvation. I'd seen that look a thousand times, in a hundred different faces, all of them wearing the same expression of disbelief that their comfortable world of small-time crime had suddenly collided with something much larger and infinitely more dangerous.

“Mr. Markovic,” he wheezed, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth. “I can explain. I can make this right.”

“I'm sure you can,” I agreed, selecting a scalpel from the array of tools I'd laid out on a metal table. The blade caught the light, throwing brief rainbows across the concrete walls. “But first, let's discuss what you thought you were doing when you decided to poach from my territory.”

Vincent's operation had been small-time—street kids grabbed from bus stations, sold to perverts with more money than sense. The kind of amateur hour bullshit that gave human trafficking a bad reputation. But size wasn't the issue. The issue was that he'd been doing it in neighborhoods that belonged tome, using contacts that I'd spent years cultivating, taking money that should have been flowing into my accounts.

“It wasn't personal,” Vincent said, the words coming out in a rush. “I didn't know it was your territory. I swear on my mother's grave, I didn't know.”

I smiled, the expression feeling strange on my face because genuine amusement was such a rare commodity in my line of work. “Vincent, everything is personal. That's the first lesson you learn in this business, and the last one you forget before someone puts a bullet in your head.”

The scalpel parted skin like it was tissue paper, opening a precise line along Vincent's collarbone. Not deep enough to hit anything vital, just deep enough to remind him that I held his life in my hands and could squeeze whenever the mood struck me.

“The question,” I continued, wiping blood from the blade with a handkerchief that probably cost more than Vincent's monthly rent, “is how we're going to resolve this unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Money,” Vincent gasped. “I've got money. Cash, drugs, whatever you want. Just name your price.”

That was the problem with small thinkers—they always believed that every problem could be solved by throwing enough resources at it. But some debts couldn't be paid with money, and some lessons required a more permanent form of instruction.

“I don't want your money, Vincent,” I said, tracing another line with the scalpel, this one along his ribs. “I want to send a message. Something clear and unambiguous that will reach every two-bit hustler in the city who might be thinking about making the same mistake you made.”

Understanding dawned in Vincent's eyes, the kind of terrible clarity that came with accepting that hope was a luxury he couldno longer afford. “Please,” he whispered, and the word carried years of terror compressed into a single syllable.

“Please,” I repeated, testing the weight of the word. “Such a small sound to carry so much meaning. Do you know how many people have said that word in this room, Vincent? How many times I've heard it echoed off these walls?”

I didn't wait for an answer because we both knew he didn't have one. Instead, I set the scalpel aside and picked up something more substantial—a pair of bolt cutters that Dmitri had requisitioned from a construction site. The metal was cold against my palms, heavy with the promise of irreversible damage.

“The first finger is for thinking you could operate in my territory without permission,” I said, positioning the blades around Vincent's index finger. “The second is for believing you were smart enough to avoid getting caught.”

The sound of bone and cartilage separating was wet and final, like breaking a chicken wing. Vincent's scream echoed off the concrete walls, raw and animal, the kind of noise that humans made when civilized behavior finally cracked under the weight of genuine terror.

“The third,” I continued, moving to his middle finger, “is for making me waste my time on cleanup when I have more important things to do.”

Three fingers fell to the concrete floor with soft thumps that sounded like punctuation marks at the end of a sentence written in blood. Vincent was sobbing now, the sound mixing with his labored breathing to create a symphony of suffering that served as background music for the lesson I was teaching.

“And the fourth,” I said, pausing with the bolt cutters positioned around his ring finger, “is for reminding everyone in this city that mercy is a weakness I can't afford.”

When I was finished, Vincent hung unconscious from his chains, blood pooling beneath him in abstract patterns that looked almost artistic in the harsh light. Four fingers lay scattered on the concrete like discarded punctuation, each one a word in the message I was sending to anyone stupid enough to test my patience.