“Oy, such language. You have a big, big, BIG day today, so you had best put on that thinking cap and get ready for breakfast.” I hauled him out like sweaty, stinky luggage and dragged him to the door by the ties on his ankles.
Zane dutifully returned with what I needed – sugar, butter, a medium-sized pot and a cup of water—then stood by the stove I’d found with an expression of long-suffering disbelief on his face. He helped me get Celso up and tie him to a sturdy chair, one limb at a time. Once he was secure, I pulled out my knife and cut his clothes off. All of them, including the trashy zebra print thong he was wearing. I held it out to Zane between pinched thumb and forefinger.
“You really need someone to do your underwear shopping for you, man.” Zane held the smelly wet rag out as far from his face as he could on the way to the trash can.
Celso was wild-eyed now, cursing from around his gag. I cut it off, and the screeching began. “You little fuck! What do you think you’re doing? Do you know who I am!? You gonna fuck with me, you little twink?”
I looked him over. “Well, we were at a gay club.”
“What the—you lookin’ at my cock or something? Is this what gets you off, huh?” Celso’s rage melted to sneering mockery. “You gonna play with it, huh, faggot?”
“I didn’t bring my tweezers,” I said.
Zane actually barked a laugh from across the room, already on his way out the door. He didn’t laugh very often.
“Fuck you! You don’t scare me, pussy little dwarf piece of shit!” Celso spat at me. “My whole fucking family’s gonna be after you! My dad’ll fuck you up! Do you hear me!?”
“Your father is irrelevant to me,” I replied, setting the pot on the stove. I poured in the water, then the sugar, then turned the heat up.
The big Italian jeered. “Whatcha gonna do, tough guy? Make me some candy?”
I smiled thinly. “We’re going to start with your knowledge of the Templum Voctus Sol and the Teutonic Knights, the Deutsche Orden.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Frank Nacari was murdered in August,” I said, stirring the sugar around. I put the spoon down, and began unwrapping the butter. “As I understand it, he was murdered by Jana Volotsya, at the time the representative of the TVS in New York. I understand that the Yaroschenko Organizatsiya worked for the TVS before changing affiliation to the Deutsche Orden, but what about you?”
“Wait,” he said. “I know you. I fuckin’ know you. You... you’re the Russian Mafia spook, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
He leered. “I gunfucked your whore of a sister, asshole. She was your sister, right? The old bitch in the apartment over the cafe?”
I stayed outwardly composed, but for that, I’d hurt him regardless of how he cooperated now. “Mariya died suddenly. One entry wound. Nothing much to tell.”
“Oh, naw, bro. She was screamin’, and cryin’.” Celso brayed with manic, nervous laughter. “Too ugly to fuck, scarecrow bitch-”
I marked those ‘facts’ down for later. They’d be useful—after I’d gotten what we needed. “I knew you were there. Thank you for confirming what Snappy Joe Grassia told me.”
“Hell yeah I was there, and I’d have fucked her if she didn’t look like a dog’s ass.” He laughed again, cutting short when the part about Snappy Joe finally hit him. “Wait. Joe? YOU killed Joe?”
“That’s right.” I poked the butter around, then added the next quarter pound. “The woman you killed, Mariya, raised me and my sworn brother. My mother died when I was young, and Mariya took over the job for Vassily and I. He was the man you kidnapped, by the way. The sick one. He also died."
"And you think I give a fuck why?" Celso was breathing heavily, worn out.
"Because one of the things Mariya was passionate about was cooking," I replied, tapping the spoon on the edge of the pot. "She ran a café, and she insisted that 'her boys' knew how to take care of themselves. Do you know the boiling point of human flesh, Celso?”
“I know your dead mom was a whore!” Celso spat in my direction, but he was dehydrated and running out of spittle. Most of it ended up in his own chest hair.
"Human skin burns at one hundred-sixteen degrees Fahrenheit. The tissue is damaged, then redness, swelling, and pain results. At one hundred-twenty, the nerves give way with terrible pain, and then they die. At one hundred-fifty degrees, you suffer third-degree burns within one second of contact. Skin falls off, bones and nerves are damaged beyond repair, and if you do manage to survive – assuming, of course that less than 10% of your body has been burned – you scar so badly that you barely look human anymore."
"Fuck you!"
"Sugar begins to boil at two hundred-ten degrees," I continued breezily. A pleasant caramel smell had begun to fill the room. “But the boiling point is only the first stage of making candy. You see, sugar doesn't lose heat very well. The longer you boil it, the more water evaporates from it and the hotter it gets. So the first stage, which is the stage you use to make syrup, is two hundred-thirty degrees: almost twice the temperature required to burn human flesh."
“Wait,” Celso said. “Hold up just a second.”
I wagged the hot wooden spoon in the air. “There's five stages of the candy making process, Celso, and it's important that you know them all. Soft ball, at two hundred-sixty degrees; hard ball at two hundred-eighty-five, soft crack at three hundred, hard crack at three hundred-fifty, and then caramelization at four hundred-ten degrees." I looked up at him. "Four hundred and ten degrees, suka. Imagine how that's going to feel when I pour it over your dick."
The sugar and butter was at a rolling boil by now. Celso had gone a nasty shade of red.
"We just started to boil. From here, it takes about fifteen minutes to reach four hundred degrees. That's how long you have to tell me what I want to know. So let's start with John Manelli's relationship with the TVS. When did it start?"
“How about you go fuck yourself with that spoon?”
I got a ladle, and used it to skim a little of the bubbling oil and sugar mixture. When I turned with it, he flinched, but then steeled himself, snorting like a bull. I walked over, and flicked the ladle at his chest.
Sugar burns hurt. A lot. Celso yowled, and began to struggle and thrash against the steel frame and the handcuffs that bound him to it. While he wore himself out to a panting, shuddering, bleeding mess, I strolled back and continued stirring. "What year did John's relationship with the TVS start, Celso?"
"Fuck you!" It was higher pitched this time, shrill with pain and uncertain fear.
“You can stop this, Celso,” I said. “You don't have to go through this. But we've reached soft ball stage, and it's time to test the sugar again. Wouldn't want to burn it."
"No! No, you fuckin' – STOP!" Celso rose and thumped back against the chair to no avail as I bought the next ladle across. This time I got in close and poured the thick, superhot liquid over his skin, across his pecs and down over the top of his soft belly. He howled in agony.
“You can stop this,” I repeated, going back to the pot. “Do you smell that nice butter toffee scent? It's already almost time to test again.”
"Okay!" Celso half wheezed, half sobbed, his breathing ragged. "Okay, look –"
“The timeline of TVS involvement with your family, boy.” I turned with the ladle in hand to find Celso staring at me, eyes wide with mingled terror and fascination.
"They'll know." He had a look of disbelief, like he couldn't believe he was breaking down under the pressure. The sugar solution was still stuck to him, slowly pulling the skin off the deep, peeling burns on the shoulder and chest. "They'll tear my soul to shreds. I’ll go to Hell."
“And I’m thirty seconds away from pouring that pan of molten sugar over your body, starting with your pathetic, tiny, unprotected sea slug of a cock. Then over your hands. Your face, into your mouth. Then I'm going to intubate you. Are you a big boy, Celso? Do you know what tracheal intubation is?"
He shook his head, f
ace milk-pale under his stubble.
"Tracheal intubation is where I punch a hole in the front of your throat and put a piece of hollow tubing inside so that you can keep wheezing away while your mouth is full of bleeding, swollen burns." I stopped in front of him, staring him in the eyes. "And then, with you blind, emasculated, unable to open your fused, rotting mouth, I'm going to care for you. I’ll cleanly amputate the things that fall off, make sure you stay alive. And when the scars are all healed up, I'm going to send you drooling and limping and crying back to Daddy. Do you think your family will love you when you look like that, Celso? Remember what they did to Vincent after his accident?"
Celso was crying now, his eyes puffy and red. His gaze was rooted to the ladle. "Oh GOD no, please."
I flicked the ladle at him. The big man shrieked, lashing his head back and forth. He only belatedly realized there was no pain. The ladle was empty.
"It’s not them!" He cried, voice roar. "It’s just me, okay?!”
I cocked my head. “Explain.”
Celso licked his lip. He was perfectly abject now, trembling, bathed in sweat. “So there was this... this thing that happened. Back in ‘82. My dad says he was visited by an angel, like, an honest-to-God angel. Her... his... their name is Mu-Munificence.”
Munificence. Munificence was a synonym for ‘generosity’, but the name sent a cold, crawling thrill down my spine.
“I swear on my mother’s grave she’s real,” Celso said. “But she’s not an angel, not really. She protects my Family. I always knew something about her was screwy, though, like, because she’s tied up in drugs and with the cops. She’s got black hair. And she’s blind. Angels aren’t blind.”
I frowned. “So what’s your point?”
“She told my dad that he was a strong man, that his prayers had been heard. She told him that the time of Tribulations is at hand.” Celso was talking eagerly now. “That the Rapture was coming in less than ten years’ time. And she said that GOD loves kings, real men, the faithful. If it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t be where we are today.”
The Tribulations? Same thing this ‘angel’ had told Lee Harrison’s father.
Celso kept on babbling. “She told my dad to take over the dope trade so that we can cut it off, kill all the scum bringing it into the city. People like you, all the fuckin’ commies and gooks and fags, all the ones screwing up the world. We got rid of one guy. Uhh... what’s his name... Brukov? Rodney Brukov, I think. She found a guy in the Russian Mob that was willing to turn him over.”
Rodion Brukov had been my old boss in better times. He had been a fair but ruthless man, a true Vor v Zakone. He’d died a miserable, lingering death. “Who betrayed Brukov?”
“Jesus, I can’t even say these friggin’ Russian names. Greg? Grig? Solensky or something. He was a real bum.”
“Grigori Sokolsky.” I wish I would have been surprised, but I wasn’t.
“Yeah! That’s the guy.” Celso licked his lips. “But like I said, I knew something was screwy the whole time. Angels don’t get wrapped up in fuckin’ dope. Dad was getting weird over time, too, like… erratic. Angry. He didn’t want anything to do with us or the guys on the street. Spent all his time praying, going to these secret meetings with spooks from the Government. I think maybe he had something to do with the hit on the President.”
I waited, letting him talk.
“Frank and Rob found that Fruit thing out in the bay a couple months back. It was bad news from the start.” Celso was nervous now – nervous and angry, but not at me. In some deep, dark recess of his mind, he’d wanted to rant about this for months. “Dad said it was a holy relic and Munificence told him we had to bring it to her, but the thing killed a couple of guys. Then Frank and Rob went missing. Frank turned up dead. I dunno what happened to Rob.”
I did. “So what’s your role in this?”
“I called bullshit,” Celso said. “Decided I’d have to take over the Family. It was, like, becoming a cult, you know? One day, Carmine like, calls me, tells me he needs me to meet someone. He takes me to this place in the woods, spooky as hell. And I met an angel. A real one.”
“How do you know she was what she said she was?”
“My little finger was missing,” Celso continued. “Providence cried on it, and it grew back right then and there. That’s how I know she’s the real deal. Her priestess, like, she lost both her legs. Providence gave her her legs back. She told me Munificence is a demon that’s deceived my father, and I had to take the Family back. She… she showed me things. Horrible things. Wonderful things. She taught me how it really is, showed me all the codes in the Bible, all the secrets hidden in it.” His face suffused with childish wonder.
“What does Providence look like?”
“How do you think an angel fuckin’ looks? She’s beautiful. Tall. White hair to the floor, perfect pale skin. Beautiful... just beautiful. I can’t even describe it. She has these eyes. They suck you in, and you can hear Him. The Father.”
From one cult to the other, then. A picture was beginning to assemble, and it was grim. “And the Deacon? When did he appear?”
“He came from Chicago when Jana was killed by some crazy spook,” Celso replied. “He’s real good. Loaded and connected, a good leader... he had to go stealth though, you know, for his safety.”
“And the Tree?” I regarded him levelly, taking the bubbling pot from the stove.
“It’s a Tree from the Garden of Eden,” Celso breathed. “It’s only small, though. This crazy gook cult got hold of it in China or somethin’. The Deacon found out, took it from them and brought it here. Then the Feds somehow learned about it, and they took it, so we took it back. Then the Russians we’d brought on turned traitor for some fuckin’ reason, so they stole it and they’re going to hand it over to the Vigiles tonight. Those fucks... when I learned my dad was working for the fucking Feds and the Deep State, all those wacky child-fucker Satanic assholes, I just lost my shit. I mean, like, you know who runs the Vigiles, don’t you?”
“No idea,” I replied drolly.
Celso’s eyes burned like coals. “The CIA runs them. They’re not human, man. They’re these reptiles. Aliens, here to destroy the world.”
And with that, we were just about done. He’d veered off the necessary course, which meant he was running out of useful info. Save for one last, specific thing.
“Where is the Tree being intercepted?” I asked, moving back to the stove.
Celso looked like he was about to refuse, until I picked up the ladle. “A warehouse. East Hangar Road. Great big warehouse right at the end of East Hangar Road. You gotta get to it from the service lane on I-678. They only let trucks in though, so...”
“Carmine’s taking some of his cowboys there?”
“I-I dunno. He’s gonna put a call through to someone who handles that shit better. This is the GOVERNMENT we’re talking about, man.” He squinted at me. “Who the fuck are you, anyway? Whose side are you on?”
“Eden’s.” I pulled my knife and threw it. The blade flew end-over-end and plugged Celso in the chest with unmistakable finality.
Chapter 33
Chapter 33
Binah was banging on the back of the safehouse door and yowling like a banshee by the time I got to the top of the stairs, then launched herself at me like a furry cannonball when I let myself in. I caught her as she leapt up, spluttering as she rammed her head, flank and tail against my mouth. “That’s my—pfft—girl.”
“Eee! You’re alive!” Talya pushed away from her desk in the den, and before I really had a chance to brace myself, bounded over to shower me in affection much the same way as my cat.
“Uhh… yes?” Awkwardly, I interposed the roll of caramel between us. I’d let it cool on a sheet of baking paper while cleaning up downstairs. “Here. I thought you’d be the one who’d most likely eat this.”
“Oooh. That smells great!” Talya didn’t seem to notice how stiff my back was as she took the candy from my hands.
“It’s warm. Did you make this?”
I couldn’t help but smile at her, and as Binah wrapped herself around the back of my head. “I did. It’s leftover from my business downstairs.”
The girl regarded me with wide, innocent eyes. “What happened to the rest of it?”
I’d used the rest of it to seal Celso’s nose and mouth, and to cauterize his stab wound so that he didn’t bleed. Still, I didn’t want to put her off her food. “Secret wizard business.”
“Well, trick or treat, I guess.” Talya laughed, and peeled back some of the wrapper to gnaw at the toffee as she went inside.
Zane was working out here instead of going to the gym. Shirtless, he was shadow-boxing near the window. The converted office was cozily run down, complete with some fresh Halloween decorations for the season. Both Talya and Zane had big camping backpacks sitting on the floor. Something in my chest unknotted when I saw my bags and suitcases piled carefully against the wall behind them.
“Where’s everyone else?” I looked between the pair of them.
“We’re all bunkered down in different locations,” Talya was quicker on the draw than Zane. “Jenner’s had to make a difficult decision for us.”
I reached up to scratch Binah’s chin. “Please tell me she’s throwing the fight and you’re all relocating?”
“Uhh.” Talya winced.
“No,” Zane said heavily. “We stay and fight. The match with Otto is tonight, and we’re going to send the Nightbrothers packing. After that, we’re going to ride down to talk with Starfish and Cassie’s crew, wait until the heat’s off, and come back.”
I sighed. “She’s letting her pride get the best of her.”
Zane shook his head stubbornly. “This is our city. Our city, our problem, our responsibility. It’s taken Jenner two decades to get some respect from the other M.C.s in this country, and if we run from Otto, we won’t ever get that back.”
“I won’t argue. But I’m worried that there’s something we’re not seeing.” Resigned, I groped around behind me for a chair and fell into it, too stiff to properly bend my knees. Finding Celso had given me a shot of fresh energy, which was now well and truly spent. I hurt. The infection was still there, brooding in my flesh and only just barely put down by the antibiotics I’d begun. They were working, given the reduction in fever and the sour metallic taste in my mouth, but I’d be on them for days.
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