The metal door scrapes against concrete as I push it open, revealing a hallway lit only by fluorescent tubes that hum and flicker like dying insects.
My footsteps echo in the empty space, announcing my presence to those who wait ahead. The air inside is stale, carrying the scent of damp concrete and rusted metal. Water drips somewhere in the distance, a steady percussion that marks time in this forgotten place.
This building has seen things that would haunt ordinary men’s dreams—blood spilled, screams swallowed by thick walls, secrets buried in concrete.
I follow the corridor, each step deliberate, unhurried. There’s no need to rush toward what’s inevitable. The flickering lights cast my shadow against the wall, elongated and distorted, a warped reflection of the darkness I carry within.
At the end of the hallway stands another door, the one I need. The first thing that hits me when I open it is the smell. Fear, sweat, blood, and the acrid scent of a man who knows he’s going to die.
The room beyond is sparsely furnished; concrete floor, drain in the center, single overhead light casting harsh shadows that hide nothing.
In the middle sits a chair, and bound to that chair is a man, the one Raven told me about. His head hangs forward, chin resting on his chest in either exhaustion or defeat. At the sound of the door, he looks up, and I see the moment recognition dawns in his eyes.
Fear blooms there, raw and primal, as he takes in my face, my eyepatch, the calculated emptiness of my expression.
“There you are,” Kayla chirps from behind him. Her red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, surgical gloves already covering her hands. She’s the best at extraction—of information, of confessions, of teeth if necessary.
“Has he said anything useful?” I ask, not taking my eyes off our guest.
“He swears he had nothing to do with the explosion last year,” Kayla answers, her voice almost bored. “Or the small one from last weekend.”
I nod, moving closer to the chair. The captive tries to shrink away, the chains binding him rattling with his futile effort. I reach down, grasping his trembling wrist and turning it to reveal what I already know is there—a small black circle tattooed on the inside of his wrist.
“You know who I am,” I state, not a question but a confirmation.
He nods, a whimper escaping his cracked lips.
“Anything you want to tell me before I let Kayla continue her fun?”
His eyes dart frantically around the room, seeking mercy where there is none. “P-please,” he whispers, the word barely audible. “It has nothing to do w-with you, M-Matteo.”
Kayla hums as she removes her gloves and uses some pliers to clean her long, talon-like nails.
“Enlighten me,” I bark.
The man stutters his way through an explanation about the tattoo being a symbol of revenge that’s used and recognized all over the world. While he talks, I process the information.
Didn’t Joey say something similar? Well, he said it was just a symbol, claiming he had no idea about the origin. And according to his girlfriend, she just wanted them to get the couple tattoo because of what it signifies. Wholeness, eternity, and infinity.
It’s possible I’m going about this all wrong and that the tattoo and symbol itself isn’t what’s important. But without it, I’m looking for… well, let’s just say that even a needle in a haystack would be easier. I don’t even know if I’m looking for a needle at this point. Fuck.
Looking at Kayla, I give her a slight nod. “Find out what you can,” I command.
Her hand moves to the tray of tools beside her, fingers hovering over the arrangement of metal that gleams under the harsh light.
The captive begins to sob, broken prayers spilling from his lips as I turn toward the door. I pause on the threshold, looking back at him one last time. Our eyes meet across the room—his wide with terror, mine cold with purpose.
“You know how people say it’s not personal, just business?” When he nods, I smile widely. “This is personal, motherfucker. Very personal. And not just to me. Kayla doesn’t like you, and that’s bad news for you.”
Kayla giggles, the sound innocent and terrifying all at once. “Oh, I really don’t,” she agrees, selecting a thin blade from her collection. “You shouldn’t have lied to me earlier.”
I leave them to their work, closing the door on the man’s first real scream. The sound follows me down the corridor, bouncing off concrete walls before fading into background noise.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Vito: Perimeter secure. No unexpected visitors.
Good. The last thing I need is complications tonight. This place isn’t on any official property records tied to the Russos. It’sa ghost, like so many of our operations—existing in plain sight but invisible to those who don’t know where to look.
