Matteo led the effort in prepping him for me. He’s been searched and interrogated… to an extent.
Nothing compared to what’s about to happen to him.
They found his ID on him. We know he has no known associations with the ZiccardiorVorone families.
Which means whoever he works for doesn’t want us to find out. Today’s attack was carried out at the behest of somebody powerful who wants to remain anonymous. It’s exactly the kind of shit one of my enemies would pull.
“I’m out of patience this evening,” I announce upon entering the room.
A hushed silence falls over everyone. They’re standing still as they obediently wait out what I have planned.
I walk over to my desk where there’s a decanter of cognac waiting for me. Pulling out the stopper, I take my time pouringmy drink. Vincent’s holding it together better than most losers before him.
He’s not begging. Not crying for mercy.
He’s not even trying to haggle his way out of his situation.
“I have one question for you,” I say, sipping from my glass. I’ve turned to face him, piercing him with my intimidating stare. “One question I’m going to ask, and then we’ll get this over with. You already know why you’re here. You know what you’ve done is despicable. You’re probably aware you’re about to die. But it’s up to you how painful you want it to be.”
His eyes waver with uncertainty, his brows drawing close.
“You decide to be a stronzo, and you’ll suffer greatly for it. If you choose smartly and do as I ask, you’ll still die… but it’ll be quick. Less painful.”
I swallow another sip or two of my cognac and then set it down so we can get to work.
“First, you need to understand how serious I am about this. You have attempted to murder my men. You attempted to murder me. Both strikes against you, but then you had to bring my wife into it. You’ve attempted to hurt her. Which is possibly the worst thing you can do in my eyes. So you should understand you’re lucky I haven’t ripped you to shreds with my bare hands… yet.”
Vincent’s jaw squares as he remains silent. He barely dignifies my threat with a blink of his eyes.
A half-grin cracks onto my face. I sip more cognac. “Something tells me I know how this is about to go. But let’s get the question out of the way first. Tell me, Vincent. Who sent you?”
Tense silence answers the question I’ve asked.
Vincent remains mute as the question is posed. He simply holds my gaze and gives no reaction.
“As I thought,” I say. “You’ve decided to make this as painful as possible for yourself. Truthfully, I’m glad. It means I can have a little fun making the piece of shit who shot at my wife suffer. Chris, Matteo, take off his clothes. Then strap him down on the table right there. We don’t want him having use of his arms and legs… while they remain attached to his body, that is.”
Both soldiers step forward and roughly pull him out of his clothes. His shirt’s first to go, followed by his shoes and socks and then his pants. His boxers are discarded in a pitiful heap on the floor, leaving him completely naked and exposed.
They grab Vincent by the arms and drag him toward the table we usually use for maps and other planning.
I down the last of my cognac, slamming the glass on the desk. Then I wander over to the glass case where a selection of instruments is on display. My fingers hover over everything from a branding iron to brass knuckles and drills. Instead, I select a boxcutter and turn toward the table.
“This is about to be a while,” I announce. “Vincent, you’re in for a hell of a lot of pain. And trust me when I say I’ll enjoy every second of it.”
Vincent sucks in a sharp breath as if reminding himself to hold out. His gaze slides up to the ceiling above, now refusing to look at me.
I stand over the table with the boxcutter in hand to drag out anticipation. “One last chance, Vincent. Who do you work for?”
When his answer doesn’t come, I let the razor-point of the boxcutter glide over his throat, then collarbone. He’s gone so still, you’d think he was a mummy. Only his eyelashes flutter as he lays still and blinks back any panic.
“You’ve made your choice then,” I say, dragging the boxcutter across his chest. “You’ve chosen to suffer every last moment you’re alive. Thank you for the parting gift, Vincent.”
He flinches as I press the tip of the blade on his pectoral. It’s more of a light touch. It’s slow and methodical as the blade slices into his skin and produces a shallow gash. A whimper starts up in his throat despite how hard he tries to remain resolute.
My half grin stretches wider. “That’s nothing, Vincent. We haven’t even gotten started yet. Do you know what flaying is?”
I nick him again, this time on the side where his ribs are located. This time the slash is deeper, though not quite as deep as we’re about to go. He chokes out a pained groan in response, then clamps his lips tight.
