The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Lorcan
“Let’s play a game.”
Viktor Bratnov starts to hyperventilate the moment the words leave my lips.
I stare down at the puddle caused by the leaky pipe in the ceiling. Drip, drip, dripping on the concrete. I always give my captives a little breather after I spout something vague. That little stretch of silence gives their imagination time to go wild. Because sometimes, fantasy can be even worse than reality.
Those sometimes are never with me.
A heavy sigh comes from my lungs, then I stand up and close the distance between me and my toolbox. I don’t need to look at Viktor to know his eyes are following me around the damp, dark room like a hawk. Because watching is all that he can do, considering I’ve tied him to one of the stone pillars that keep the Quinn Ventures building standing.
I bide my time, running my fingers over each tool, plucking some from the box and holding them up to the dim glow from the small lamp in the corner.
When I hold up the pliers, a very satisfying shriek escapes him.
“Pliers it is,” I drawl.
“No,” he gargles, choking on the puddle of blood swamping the back of his throat. Then he barks something in Russian.
“I haven’t got that far on Duolingo, I’m afraid,” I muse, polishing the blade of my pliers with the rag I took out of his mouth a few moments earlier. “I’ll explain the rules of the game, although even a lobotomized loaf like you will get the gist pretty quickly.”
More gargling, more writhing his back against the curve of the pillar.
Ah, the soundtrack of the Tunnels. A complex network of large, cavernous rooms underneath the city, where skyscrapers lay their foundations and the council has their sewage system. My grandfather made a deal with the mayor at the time, and the Quinn’s were given the sole key to the network. Buried well below the streets of the city and surrounded in meters-thick concrete, it’s the perfect place to conduct the more…violent side of the business.
The Tunnels have been losing their charm lately. Perhaps because I’m down here fourteen hours a day at the moment, either extracting information from anyone remotely connected to the Bratnovs, or using them as a punching bag.
It’s getting tiresome. The perils of war, I suppose.
But there’s nothing boring about having Viktor Bratnov, Igor Bratnov’s youngest son, in my captivity. No, the excitement brews below the surface of my skin, and I have to breathe slow and steady to stop my hands trembling with the excitement.
This is it.
War is coming to an end.
“The game is called Give or Take. I give you the chance to answer a question truthfully, and if you don’t, I take something from you.” I snip the pliers for emphasis.
My routine is so well practiced that it feels like I’ve been running a one-man play on Broadway for years. I close the gap between us and crouch down, ready for Act Two.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, Viktor,” I mutter in his bloodied ear. I hope my face shows the concern I’m trying to convey, instead of just looking constipated. “So, I’ll give you one freebie question, okay? A test run. Nod if you understand.”
Under the mop of damp blond hair, he gives me a small dip of his head. The satisfaction I feel is almost overwhelming. Viktor and I aren’t so different, you know. We were both born with a surname that gave us total power, without ever having to do anything to earn it. When our families still had their pacts, we’d cross paths a few times a year. I’d see his yacht on the Med in the summers, hear his rugged laugh on the other side of the wall in Panama’s most esteemed whorehouse.
The only difference between us now is that I have no choice but to step up to the plate. “First question,” I growl. “Where is your father hiding?”
Viktor gurgles, stretching his lips to reveal the gummy gap where I knocked out three of his teeth a few hours earlier. He closes his swollen eyes, stiffens his back, and then stares at me with the composure of a man that has trained for moments like this his whole life. His lips curl backward and then he spits just left of my Gucci loafer. “Fuck yourself,” he hisses. Without giving it a second thought, I slam his head back against the concrete pillar. There’s a sharp intake of breath and then a sickening crack before his head rolls around his neck.
I slap his bloodied cheek and mutter, “For fucks sake.”
“He’s out cold.”
I turn to see Antoin at the doorway, sleeves of his shirt rolled up and hands in his suit pockets. “No shit, Sherlock,” I grumble back.
“Maybe we should send in the medic. We really need him alive. He’s the only direct link to Bratnov we have right now.”
My gaze locks on Antoin’s. “No medic,” I snarl, stalking past him and out into the dimly lit corridor. “He’ll be fine in a bit.”
Donnacha appears in the doorway. He snaps off a pair of bloody rubber gloves and chucks them on the floor. “I got somethin’ to say.”
Antoin drags his eyes from Viktor’s slumped body and nods to the makeshift office at the end of the hall. Once inside, I click the door shut and sit on an upturned bucket. My body is heavy with too much torturing and not enough whiskey.
“I’ll make this quick,” Donnacha says, wiping his brow with the hem of his T-shirt. “I’ve got Bratnov’s accountant’s son next door. I think we need outside help.”
My jaw sets but he raises his hand. “Trust me, Lorc. You know I hate admitting defeat as much as you do.”
I lean against the cold concrete and pin him with a hard stare. “You have ten seconds to convince me that this is a good idea.”
“Igor Bratnov has disappeared off the face of the goddamn earth. He’s plotting, Lorc.”
“No shit.”
“But we have no idea what he’s plotting.” He thrusts a bloodied thumb towards the wall, the one that separates us and an unconscious Viktor. “You know that fucker ain’t talking. Those Russian’s have loyalty made from steel. They have a hive mentality—Igor will bury his son six feet under if it’s for the greater good.”
“Your ten seconds are up.”
“Lorcan,” Donnacha says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Please.” My lips harden into a thin line; he takes it as his cue to continue with his stupid fucking plan. “Our men are dropping like flies. We’ve lost three cousins today alone.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, grinding my molars together. Right now, I don’t even want to know who. One I play poker with every Thursday? One that taught me how to skim stones on our family holidays to Martha’s Vineyard?
“We might win this war, Lorcan, but we’ll have no men left to show for it,” he says, lowering his tone into something resembling pity. “We need allies. New ones. There’s a fuck ton of families across the country that want nothing more than to see Bratnov hung, drawn, and quartered. It’s what your father would do.”
It’s what your father would do.
Fuck, I wish to every god in the fucking sky right now that my father was still alive. He’d know exactly what to do. I squeeze my eyes shut, imagine him standing in the corner of the office, like he always used to do. He’d watch us talk from the shadows, let us conjure up ideas and plans, before stepping out into the light and laying down the law.
His plans were always calm, calculated and well thought out. The second they left his lips, they were always the obvious way. Any far-fetched plan my brothers and I would bounce between the walls suddenly sounded ridiculous.
What would Donal Quinn do?
I turn to my other cousin. He’s leaning against the wall, not having said a word. “I want the East Coast, Antoin,” I say slowly and steadily, lifting my eyes to his. His jaw ticks. “I want to dominate every square mile and I won’t compromise on that.”
“Lorcan—”
“Silence,” I growl. “We’ll form an alliance, but not with any of the families on the East Coast, or with any that have business interest here either.”
Antoin strokes the stubble around his jaw and says, “I don’t think we should work with any other family.”
“I’ve got contacts, cuz,” Donnacha snaps, pinning me with a dark stare. “Loyal ones. Know at least two families that hate the Bratnov’s as much as we do. The Mexicans in South Texas and the Regazzis on the West Coast.”
My mouth curls into a sneer. “I’d rather drag my balls over hot coals than work with the Italians.”
“They’re not the same, man. Your father had a good relationship with Alessandro.”
I think back to the funeral, visualizing Alessandro Regazzi’s amongst the mourners. “He’s always publicly condemned the Delfino famiglia for what they’ve done.”
The idea rolls around my tired brain and I find myself nodding. It’s rare for two families of the same nationality to go against each other. Even if they run different operations, there’s usually a relationship there, or at the very least, an unspoken understanding, that they won’t fuck with each other or their territory.
I’ve only ever heard of it twice. Once with us against the West Coast Irish, led by Marcus Fucking Murphy, and now with the Italian’s.
“Get them here. I want a face-to-face meeting at Gatsby’s, Saturday night.”
Antoin raises an eyebrow and says, “That’s in two days.”
“We can’t wait,” I bite back. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a fucking war. Get them there, or don’t.” I add with a threatening undertone, “Your funeral if it’s the latter.”
He bites his tongue, swallowing the violent retort that I can see is bubbling in his throat. “I’ll sort it.”
I scrub at the bags under my eyes. My limbs are heavy. Thinking about it, I can’t remember the last time I slept.
“Go home and get some rest, Lorcan,” Donnacha says, clapping my shoulder.
“Nah, I gotta—”
“I’ll take care of Viktor,” Antoin interrupts. He offers me a cruel smile. “What weapon should I start with?”
I rise from the upturned bucket and thump his shoulder on the way out. “The sander,” I grumble. “I want his skin sanded off, layer by layer, until he’s about to pass out again from the pain.”
Donnacha lets out a low whistle as I head to the exit. “I’d love to spend thirty minutes inside that fucked-up mind of yours, Lorc.”
I grimace to myself.
You wouldn’t survive ten seconds.