Page 90 of Villainous Kingpin

“How in the fuck is he supposed to talk with a hole in his mouth?” Dante complained.

Priest shrugged. “It’s not clean off. He can still talk.” Dante rolled his eyes. “Fine, since you’re so sensitive,” Priest caved, then let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll stop playing with his tongue.”

So he sunk the sharpest point of the glass into his ribs. “I’ll just play with his ribs.”

“You’re one sick motherfucker,” I told my cousin Priest.

His answer was a slightly unhinged grin.

Dante shot us both a look, then just shrugged. “You’re both sick fuckers.”

“Thank you,” Priest and I answered at the same time.

My demons danced through my veins, eager to play with the fucker. Eager to make him suffer. It had been weeks and I kept waiting for the break. For any piece of information that would bring me a step closer toher.

So I caved into the monster and took a step towards the Russian, while Priest muttered his last rites. While he was twisting the glass in his ribs, my hand wrapped around his throat and I squeezed.

“Why is the Bratva here?” I growled. “Who’s your fucking Pakhan?”

Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth as he choked. I released the grip just enough to let him speak.

“You’ll never see our Pakhan coming,” he garbled out, wheezing. “Death is coming for all of you.”

I slammed my forehead against his. Bone against bone. The buzzing in my head was welcomed. It was exactly the kind of pain I needed. But he didn’t. His scream traveled over the empty room like a shockwave.

“Fucking crazy Italians,” he hissed, gurgling on his own blood, eyeing us warily.

“You ain’t seen crazy yet,” Priest laughed, then started reciting the last rites. Again. “May the Holy Spirit free you from this miserable life and sins swallow you whole with the grace of the Holy Spirit.”

Priest reallylikedthis one.

I pulled out my knife and stabbed his thigh with it. As Priest twisted the glass into his ribs, I worked on tearing his thigh up.

“Let’s start again.” Dante leaned against the wall, watching the scene unfold. “See, my cousin and brother quite enjoy torturing. They can last days, playing with their prey. So you might want to speed up and tell us what you know.”

Then to prove his point, I struck the Glock into his skull. And again. The crunch of breaking bones mixed with his pained screams.

“Who are the Russians looking for?” I demanded. There was no mistake, they were looking for someone. The fuckers were all over New York, attacking different organizations. Brennans. Me. Russians in New Orleans. Columbians. Even Yakuza. “Who’s your fucking Pakhan? Last warning.”

Then to show him I meant business, I pushed the knife deeper into his thigh.

“Winter Volkov,” he screamed out a name and I froze. So did Priest. Shock washed over me and I stilled.

“Who?” I asked, my voice cold and detached.

“Winter Volkov,” he panted, his accent heavy. “Pakhan’s daughter. She's dead, but they are looking for Winter Volkov’s descendants.”

“Who’s they?” I asked harshly.

“Akim Kazimir,” he whimpered. “He has a lead and works directly with the Pakhan. That’s all I know, I swear.”

He cried like a baby, repeating it was all he knew. Over and over again.

“I believe you,” I told him finally and raised my gun.

“Amen, motherfucker,” Priest finally ended his last rite, just as I pulled the trigger.

Turning to Priest, I found him already scouring the web, digging for information.