CHAPTER 1
Rico
The sound of the mechanical screwdriver drilling into a kneecap combined with the cries of the man zip tied to the metal chair before me creates a hauntingly beautiful symphony.
Blood sprays and splashes against my face and dark clothes.
I leave the drill inserted in his kneecap as I reach over to my work table and collect a clean cloth to clean his blood from my face.
After I take my time cleaning my face I say to him monotonously with a fake smile that requires too much effort on my part, but I do so to put him more at unease, “You would think after doing this countless times I would remember to wear a face shield.”
The man’s eyes widened further, reminding me of a caricature. Tears have already fallen from them after I had made his arm my very own experiment with acupuncture. The entirety of his right arm is covered in specialty made small knives. I haven’t removed any as of yet. Every time he goes to squirm, or try to remove himself from the zip ties the knives create such an exquisite pain as they embed themselves deeper in his skin.
Stupidity at its finest.
They all are. Every person I have tortured for Don Constantine Donati to either gain information or prove a point lacks intelligence.
And this man does not only lack intelligence, he has also proven to be the most blubbering pathetic mess.
It doesn’t affect me either way, it only extends my time with him. Trying to decipher the words of gibberish sobs takes more time than coherent words.
“I-I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re. . .” He stutters while sobbing, his Irish accent thick. Snot leaks from his nose like a faucet as salvia mixed with blood pours from his mouth.
He’s a fucking mess.
I prefer my life and my environment to be clean and pristine.
But in these moments, and these moments alone, I prefer the mess. It means I’m doing my job and more than that it means he’s closer to his end.
Which is indeed most preferable to me and Constantine.
“Spit it out, Dougal. I haven’t cut out your tongue. Yet.” I let the threat sit heavy in the air. He breathes it in, fear engulfing his lungs.
What does fear feel like?
I ask myself this during each torture session. I still don’t have an answer. And seeing it varies from person to person. Take Dougal for example, he tends to cry and spit upon himself as if he were a newborn baby. The woman I tortured last week didn’t cry once. She said she had known pain since the moment she was born and what I was inflicting was no different.
Fear, it’s special to each person.
But no matter how brave they are, strong or weak, a blubbering mess or silent, they’re fear all leads to the same end when I’m the one instilling it; death.
He cries more. I glance down at my watch, the second hand ticking, ticking, ticking. I click my tongue in time while lookingat him. “Tick, tick, tick. How many more seconds will pass until I decide it’s your eye that must go next?”
“Please. Please, please, please,” he pleads for his eye that hasn’t dried since I started my own take on acupuncture.
I rest back on my own chair, allowing my long legs to stretch out before me as I clasp my hands over my belt buckle. I’m completely relaxed, unbothered and unaffected. A complete contrast from Dougal.
Appearing bored and tired of his pleadings I sigh heavily. I’ve seen the act done enough to perfect it.
“Your pleadings are music to my ears, Dougal. As much as I have loved this tune for the past,” I glance down at my watch before settling my eyes on him, “two hours, I’m afraid I want to hear something else.”
He spits out blood. Remnants staining his chin. “You’ll kill me either way.”
I tilt my head to the side, regarding him with no emotion in my eyes. I do, however, place my chin between my pointer finger and thumb to appear as if I’m considering his claim.
After a minute filled of silence that creates torture on his part without me having to lift a finger I finally say, “This is true.” I see his chest deflate along with the last shimmer of hope in his green eyes vanish. “However,” hope returns in his eyes, what a stupid man, “I can make your death quick or prolong it for as long as I wish.”
“Fuckin’ fuck,” he curses under his breath. His eyes hold horror in them as he says, “I’ve heard what you done. I ain’t fuckin’ doin’ that.”
