Page 21 of Of Murder and Matrimony

We went on like that for a short while, me warming up as I got answers. Until I began asking about family operations. Then the man clammed up, refusing to utter another word. Cosimo and I started a synchronized dance, asking questions and inflicting pain to coax answers from the captive’s lips.

I slipped brass knuckles over my fingers and relished every thud and crack as the man’s ribs gave under my assault. Cosimo took his turn with a scalpel and knife, carving the man like a Sunday roast.

It wasn’t enough. I looked down at my blood-covered hands and sighed. The man was unconscious, and Cosimo had the paddles ready to go if his heart gave out.

“Does it bother you?” Cosimo asked as he attached the pads to the man’s bare chest. He was hardly old enough to grow chest hair.

“What?”

“That this guy is probably somebody Olesya grew up with,” Cosimo offered.

I looked at the limp body hanging before us. “He’s too young. She probably didn’t know him. But no, it wouldn’t bother me. Does it bother you?”

“No,” Cosimo scoffed, running his fingers over his torture implements like one might the delicate petals of a flower. “Torture has never evoked the same feelings in me as it does in others—mainly guilt and remorse.”

“I don’t feel guilt over punishing the enemy.” All it took to renew my rage was thinking about my mother and Niccolò. “We’ve never lived in a black-and-white world. For us, everything is shades of grey and red.”

Cosimo inclined his head and selected a pair of pliers, snapping the metal in his hands as he strolled across the tarp. He tapped his phone several times, and viola music floated through the space. He was about to get lost in his task, which meant I wouldn’t want to stick around much longer. I could stomach a lot, but I preferred not to watch when Cosimo started burning people for fun or sewing designs into their skin.

His guest’s scream tore through the air when my brother ripped the nail from his big toe. What a way to wake up.

“Let’s move on to what your bosses have planned for my family.” I sat in a chair on the tarp, far enough back that I wouldn’t get splattered with blood while Cosimo worked.

“I–I don’t know,” the man sputtered.

“Come now,” I cajoled, propping my right ankle on the opposite knee. “You expect me to believe you haven’t had any orders about your job on the street?”

He shook his head. “J–just the kill order.”

“Tell me about that.”

“At first, it was just the men.” The dude had the good sense to look ashamed. “But then they said women and ch–children were included.”

“Say that again,” I growled, my back straightening.

“I–I swear, I wouldn’t hurt a kid. Or a woman,” he blubbered, fresh tears running down his face. “I couldn’t believe it myself. It’s not like the brothers, but the order came straight down the chain of command. None of you are safe.”

I held still for several minutes, processing the new information. Before, we’d assumed my mother was the only direct hit on a woman, and any other women and children were collateral damage in the war. What the man in front of me had revealed was much more insidious. Most families operated with a basic code of honor that protected families. It sounded like the Russian brothers had abandoned all sense of morality.

I stood and stepped closer. “What is your name?”

“Kirill,” he answered, his head lifting to meet my gaze. “P–please. I have a mother. And a little sister. She’s only ten.”

“Unlike the Zolotovs, I do not harm the innocent.” I watched as Cosimo anticipated my next move, picking up a wicked-looking blade. “Do you have any other information?”

“No,” he choked out, fully aware of what was coming.

I took the knife and grasped the back of Kirill’s head, pressing the blade against his throat. “Your mother and sister are safe from my family.”

Kirill nodded in relief and acceptance, and I locked my eyes with his. I granted him a quick death, drawing the steel deeply through his neck and severing the major arteries. His blood ran down the knife's edge and onto my fingers, but it didn’t quell the anxiousness inside me. I dropped the knife and stepped back, knowing what I needed.

My fingers fumbled with the buttons on my shirt, but soon enough, I’d discarded it, tossing the blood-stained fabric into the expanding pool of blood at Kirill’s feet.

Cosimo stilled, cocking his head to the side. “Dante?”

“Just do it,” I said through clenched teeth, presenting him with my back. He sighed, but I listened to the quiet tap of his footfalls as he walked across the cement floor and returned.

“Brace yourself on something,” he said gruffly. “I don’t want to pick your ass up off the floor.”

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