Bratva Boss’s Secret Triplets by Bella King

Chapter 5

Rebel – Two Months Later

“They’re in separate rooms,” John says, his eyes lighting up with excitement. He’s wringing his hands together like soaked dishtowels, his expression that of nervous thrill.

He’s just as invested in the two men we captured down by the dock as I am, but I don’t show it.

I never show my emotions.

Most people believe that I don’t have any, but that’s far from the truth. I wouldn’t be on the hunt if there wasn’t satisfaction involved in getting the kill. In fact, I’d say killers are driven by just as much emotion as anyone else. They just lack guilt.

I nod to John calmly, moving my sleeve back to glance down at the silver watch on my wrist. I’m going to need to make this quick if I’m going to get to the drycleaner before they close. I have a bloodstained silk suit that needs to be cleaned.

“Give me ten minutes and then send in the expert. I want to talk to them myself,” I say as I look back up at John. “And don’t tell anyone else about this. We’re going covert until we know where they came from.”

“Very well, sir,” he says, bouncing on his toes in delight.

One of John’s cousins was killed on the dock three weeks ago. I’m sure he’s eager for a bit of revenge, but the two we caught down there might not be who we’re looking for. That’s what I’m going to find out in the next ten minutes.

“Hold my calls and make sure that nobody comes to the office,” I say, removing my coat and handing it to him. “This might get messy.”

John nods, his eyes still bright with excitement. The Mafia breeds some fucked up characters, but I appreciate men who are enthusiastic about this line of work. It sure beats the ones who don’t want to be here.

You know, the guys with morals.

Unfortunately for the two men we’re holding in small concrete rooms in the back of the office, that’s not me. I learned to shed my morals to survive at a young age in the Russian slums. From there, every step I’ve taken has been at the expense of another person.

That’s life.

It’s easy to forget where you’ve come from when you’ve amassed so much wealth and power in a relatively short lifetime, but one wrong look or threat of violence reignites the rage of the young boy in me who watched my father be beaten into the floor while our apartment was raided by drug addicts.

We lived with two other families in a two-bedroom, and one of the teens from the smaller family had pissed off some dealers. That was my first taste of helplessness, and I needed to reverse the roles.

John hands me the keys to both rooms, but I’ll only have time for the first one. We have someone coming in the question both men in an hour, but I’m going to try my hand at things before then. I think a true leader should also get their hands dirty from time to time. I just happen to enjoy doing it more often.

In a small desk in the hallway, a bottle of forty-year-old scotch waits for me. I’ve been putting off opening it because I’ve been working through something much older at my desk, but I like a drink to loosen up during an interrogation.

I grab it as I walk to the back, popping the cork and taking a swig without a glass. The alcohol burns my tongue for a brief second before settling into deep sherry notes that linger for much longer than the alcohol does.

I love whiskey. It’s been with me since I was a young man, and it’s never failed to put a smile on my face. I can think back to when I couldn’t afford more than the cheapest bottle in the store, and to now, when I drink thousand dollar bottles on a whim.

Money doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all about the game. Playing to win is what I enjoy, and the money just happens to come with it.

That, and beautiful women. I’ve enjoyed many, but they’ve all paled in comparison to that one woman I shared a bed with a few months ago. She was something special.

I remember her bright blue eyes and the way that she spoke like everything was brand new. Life was for the taking. I love that attitude just as much as I love the curve of her wide hips and the smirk on her plump lips after I kissed her.

I’d like to know who she is, but I don’t remember her address. She probably moved after it got shot up by the mafia. I could try to find her, but I’m sure it traumatized her enough to never want anything to do with me again.

And that’s fine. I’ll take the loss just like any other in my life. April wasn’t supposed to be anything but a one night stand, and that’s what she will remain.

I recork the bottle as I arrive at the first door, setting it on the small table outside. I’ll enjoy more of it later, but now it’s time for business.

With a slight grin curling the side of my lips, I fish the keys out of my pocket, keeping them silent so that my captor doesn’t know I’m about to enter.

I like to surprise them. It makes it a lot harder for them to compose themselves and wear the mask of lies that they so often wear.

I want the truth, and I’m going to get it by cunning or by force.

The door comes open with a slight squeak. The iron hinges haven’t been oiled in a while, but it’s also been some time since we’ve had guests. Normally, they catch bullets in their mouth and vomit blood before we can ask them any questions. This time, we’ve caught two, and they’re still very much alive.

I don’t open the door with my hand, I kick it open with the heel of my leather boots, causing it to slam into the wall inside with a rattling boom. The captive jumps in his chair as much as he can with how many zipties are securing him to the bare metal seat.

I chuckle. “Good evening, sir.”

He remains silent, probably trying to settle back into calmness under that black bag covering his head. I wonder whose idea that was, because it certainly wasn’t mine. I like to see their expressions when I enter to determine how afraid they really are.

The jump was enough to tell me this man is on edge, but even I would be if I was facing a death this certain. There’s no way we’re going to let him live once he tells us what we want to know.

I stride up to him confidently, tearing the bag from his head and tossing it to the ground in the same motion. Finally, I can see who I’m dealing with, and I must say, I’m surprised.

He’s a younger man, probably no more than twenty years old, but he has the eyes of someone who has seen hell. He’s not a new recruit, so I have no sympathy for him just because of his age. He should already know better than to fuck with a mafia boss as powerful as I am.

I’m sure he’s seen what I’ve done to others who have crossed me in the past. I’m know to leave plenty of evidence so that they know who made the kill. Even the cops know, but they won’t touch my business. They’re just as scared of becoming targets as anyone else on the streets.

I pull up a chair, sitting directly across from my victim as he tries to look anywhere but directly at me. He can’t meet my eyes. That alone would make him pass out from fear.

“Listen, buddy, I know things don’t look too good for you right now, but I’m about to be your ticket out of here,” I say, going for the softer approach to start out. Sometimes, a little hope is all it takes to get them talking.

He doesn’t look at me, instead tilting his head down more and looking into his lap. “I doubt it,” he mumbles.

“Speak up,” I say firmly. “Pussies get fucked, if you get what I mean.”

“Everyone does in the end,” he replies.

“Not me,” I say, leaning back into my seat and cross my arms. “I get anything I want, and your job today is to convince me that I want to let your sorry ass leave this room alive.”

“I’m not convincing you of anything,” he says quickly. He’s a little too sure of himself, but I’ll fix that.

I let the silence settle in the room for a full minute before I say anything. I catch his eyes flickering up to me twice, but they quickly fall back to his lap when he sees my intense glare. He can’t face a man like me.

“Alright, let me tell you something,” I say, clasping my hands and leaning forward onto the table. “There’s a torture method that keeps you alive for months. We don’t have to kill you… what’s your name?”

“Alan,” he replies dryly.

“Alan, we don’t have to kill you. We can keep you alive for so long that your fucking brain melts.”

He remains still and doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s thinking about talking. People hate pain more than they do death, and I won’t give him death until I have what I want.

“Do you want a preview of what we can do?” I ask, cocking my head to the side and deepening my voice. “Because right now, Alan, you’re starting to piss me the fuck off with your snarky little attitude.”

He looks up at me. “I don’t have an attitude,” he says, but his tone says otherwise.

This is how I get through to him. I start chipping away at his pride, getting him angry and worked up. I only have six minutes left until I have to leave, but the next part of this won’t take me long, and I only need one name from him.

“You’ll be singing a different tune if you don’t start spitting names right now,” I say.

“Names? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, doing his best to look clueless.

His lies are better than silence. Once you get someone talking, they tend to keep going until the truth comes out. I just have to milk it out of him.

“You’re part of the Saint Gray Mafia down by the dock. They’ve been ripping apart our shipments like toilet paper since summer started,” I state boldly.

“You’re mistaken.”

“I never am.”

“You are this time,” he says confidently. He’d be crossing his arms if that were possible, but they’re still tied straight down to his chair.

“What did they have you doing down there?” I ask, quickly changing the topic. The more I switch, the more likely he is to slip up and say something by accident.

“I was taking a walk. I don’t know who you are, or why I’m here.”

“Alan, we both know that’s bullshit,” I say, shaking my head. “All I need is a name.”

“You have mine,” he replies, that same snarky tone leaking through as though I were the one tied to a chair.

I get up suddenly, swinging my arm toward Alan’s head and slapping the back of my hand across his boney face. He jerks his neck to take some of the impact out of my hit, but I wasn’t trying to be gentle when I swung. I hit him just about as hard as I can without knocking his eyeballs out of his fucking skull.

I can kill a man with a slap, and I’ve done it before. If I wanted Alan dead, he would be.

“You want another one?” I ask, pulling my hand back.

Alan’s face is already turning bright red, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to lose consciousness, but at the sight of my hand coming back for another slap, he quickly blurts out, “You’re going to kill me.”

I laugh. “So what?”

“You – you were going to torture me before, right?” he stammers.

I shrug. “I changed my mind. You’re useless.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself.

I can see him shedding his loyalties to the Saint Gray Mafia in real time, and it’s glorious. He’s going to sing like a bird, and all it took was a slap.

Too easy.

“I don’t know anyone that would interest you probably, just a few low level guys, but they’re going to kill me for talking,” Alan admits.

I sigh. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No sir.”

Sir – I like that. At least he can muster up the effort to show a real man respect. It’s amazing what the sting of pain can do to a prisoner.

“You’re going to tell me just one name,” I say, holding up a finger. I wonder if he’s not seeing two with how hard I hit him. His eyes have gone from cold and serious to wobbly and unfocused.

“Who is in charge of the Saint Gray Mafia?” I ask. “Who calls the shots?”

Alan frowns. “Peter,” he answers, stating the obvious.

But I don’t want the obvious. I want the truth, the name that sits behind Peter and moves his hands like a puppet on silver strings. I want the real leader of the Saint Gray Mafia, or at the very least, where I can find him.

“Peter isn’t in charge,” I state bluntly. “Tell me who is.”

“Peter,” he repeats, his frown deepening.

“I know that’s what they told you to say, but it’s not working on me, Alan. If you value your life, you’re going to give me the name you’re not allowed to say. That’s how this game works. You trade something precious for something else precious. I’m sure you value your freedom more than loyalty to some silly criminal organization.”

He considers my offer long enough for me to know that he has a name, or at least knows something about who is really calling the shots.

“Alright,” he says, shaking his head in shame. “I’ll talk.”