The Mafia's Pet

Chapter 20

Diego

Leo and I are both in the cold, soundproof basement covered in blood from head to toe, exhausted from our tedious labor. It has been three days since we were targeted and the stubborn motherfucker we captured still refuses to talk.

The man I'm standing before is strapped in a metal chair naked, surrounded in his own urine. The mixture of fresh and dried blood adorns his battered body, a canvas painted with the various wounds we've inflicted upon him. Groans of pain escape his cracked lips, echoing deliciously throughout the dimly lit room.

Torturing people isn't exactly my favorite part of the job. I prefer to shoot and keep it moving, but the Russians tried to take what is mine and they will pay. One at a fucking time until the entire clan is dead. Until they are wiped out of Nevada.

Leo slumps back in his chair, lighting up a cigar. His countenance is cold and indifferent as usual. "Diego, let's just kill the miserable bastard. If we haven't broken him by now, it's not going to happen," he mutters.

Ugh, Russians and their principles. I can't say I don't respect them, though. Any other man would have sung like a canary by now. Especially, after I started yanking out his teeth out one by one with pliers.

I crouch down to his level. "C'mon Andrei," I sneer, my voice a low, menacing growl. "I know you want to tell me something." Yanking a handful of his blonde hair with my gloved hand, I force him to meet my gaze. The one blue eye that isn't swollen shut stares back at me, a mix of fear and defiance in its depths. "What about your precious wife and little girl? Perhaps we'll go fetch them to have a little chat."

I have never killed a child, but I have a reputation of being ruthless when it comes to getting what I want, so he won't be able to call my bluff. I need him to crack. I need to understand why the Russians are after my pet. How do they know about her, and is her sister also on their radar?

I haven't taken any more risks with their safety. They've both been on lockdown 24/7 until I find out what's going on. Not that I care for them at all, but they're technically under my protection until the six months are up.

What happened to Ms. Garcia was unfortunate. She was a kind woman who was just doing her job, and I unknowingly put her in danger. I covered her funeral expenses, much like I did for Quincy because that's the least I could do. They were a part of the Garras Doradas de la Ciudad del Pecado (Golden Claws of Sin City), my familia, and they will be avenged.

"Your threats don't mean shit to me," Andrei spits in his thick Russian accent, venom dripping from each word. "The second I talk, he'll kill them anyway. At least I know if I keep my mouth shut, they'll be offered protection after I'm gone."

Leo shoots me a look that says, 'I told you so', and I'm two seconds away from knocking his ass out of that chair.

Anger and malice flood through my veins like a live wire. I snatch the lighter from Leo's hand and put the flame underneath my hunting knife. "Look, you already know you're not getting out of here alive, just give me the information I need, and I'll put an end to your suffering."

He shakes his head weakly. Oh well, I gave him one last chance.

Stubborn motherfucker.

I press the knife against his bare chest, a slow drag leaving a raw trail behind. Beads of crimson emerge, marking the impact. The scent of seared flesh permeates the air. In my youth, it would've provoked nausea, but with years of exposure, this is nothing to me. Violence has become an integral part of my existence, an unwelcome companion that I live, eat, and breathe.

Andrei grunts, his face contorting with pain as I apply pressure. He cries out.

Finally, a real fucking reaction!

I think he may have the highest pain tolerance I've ever seen, but every man has a breaking point. I just needed to find something to finally make him squeal. I'm disappointed in myself for not thinking of this sooner.

I continue, taking my time with the blade, reveling in the sounds of terror spilling out of him. Satisfaction courses through me like a dark river, relentless and unstoppable.

Ahh, music to my fucking ears!

After carving "Vengeance" into his chest, his body trembles from the strain of pain and exhaustion. Each ragged breath he takes echoes through the otherwise silent room. Tears mix with the heavy coating of sweat on his face, and mucus streams down. "I-I won't betray the Bratva," he stammers, his voice strained, the words barely audible.

The air hangs heavy with the weight of impending doom, and I revel in the power I hold over his trembling form. I raise the knife, covered in blood, circling him as I search for a different spot on his body to carve another word. The metallic scent of his suffering lingers in the air, and I can almost taste the palpable fear radiating from him.

Looks like we'll just have to butcher the tattoos on his arms and back.