"How about you don't tell me what I want to know. If it involves Rachel, then yes. I do, in fact, want to know." I spit the venom from my teeth.
"Andrew was going to give us Rachel for drugs." I blink at him, shocked. I was expecting something crazy, but that's the stupidest trade I have ever heard of.
Alessio senses the confusion and holds up his hands in surrender. "Let me explain. He told us that Rachel was going to school to become a defense lawyer. We could always use one of those on our side. He also wanted drugs, but didn't have the money for them. So he asked if we would take her for drugs, and we said yes. As you are well aware, we didn't end up taking her." I nod, my stomach is in knots. I can't believe someone would actually do that.
Scratch that. I can absolutely see Andrew doing that. "So he got the drugs?" Alessio nods at me and then starts to smooth out his shirt like he just realized that I was holding it.
"Okay, so you obviously took them up on the offer because Sam was one of the blackjack dealers the second time we came in." He nods again. Causing my fury to spike even more. I swear, people with few words irritate me.
Chapter forty-two
Alex
OliviawalkedupwithAlessio, but I prefer her being away from all of this. I doubt it will last, but I will be trying my best to get as much of this torture done before she comes back.
I turn to see Sam's head lolling from side to side. The zip ties holding his wrist are so tight that the plastic has already started to cut into his skin. Blood trickles down from the ridges. Pooling at the tips of his fingers, dripping onto the concrete floor in slow, rhythmic plinks.
I give it to Sam, he has been pretty vague with his answers, a smart ass at times, but nothing useful has come out of his mouth.
“Alright, Sammy boy, shall we let the fun begin?” I walk up to the partially conscious man. He groans in response.
“Let's see, Sam, you give me answers, and I will make this less painful for you.” I smile at him with my sweetest smile.
“Bullshit,” he says and then spits at me. I step back before it can hit me.
“You know, I love your fire. Too bad I have to rip it out of you.” I say, patting his cheek. He tries to bite my hand, but I pull it away just in time.
I walk over to my bench full of tools to play with, and I see my cordless drill, which could be fun. I grab it off the table, snap in the 5/64” titanium bit, barely the width of a matchstick, but that made this whole thing worse. I pull the trigger and let the motor hum to life.
I turn to look at Sam, whose eyes have gone huge.
“Listen here, Sammy boy, you planned to trade my woman for a debt that your dead brother made. So we’ll start small, and we earn our way up.”
The drill spins, high-pitched like a dentist’s tool, but colder. This is more personal. I grip his hand and press the bit against his fingernail. “This is precision work, Sammy boy, you don't want to rush it.”
The bit punches through the nail plate with a crunch, then hits bone. The scream that leaves Sam’s throat was instant. Blood streams down his palm as the drill stutters, caught in the marrow.
“Feel that?” I asked, "That's what control feels like.”
I move on, joint by joint. Knuckle, wrist, then ankle. Each time, I choose a smaller bone and a harder target. The drill overheats and begins to whine. Blood spatters the floor in oily ribbons.
“Alright, Sam, looks like you killed my drill, so now to find a new toy to play with.”
I set the drill down on the table, blood and bone dust crust the tip like rust. Sam’s sobs bounce off the wall. The sound is low and raw, barely even human. I am honestly surprised he is still conscious. His head is slumped forward but still twitching like he’s trying to hold on.
Fucking pathetic.
I glance back over to the tools. So many options. A blowtorch? No, that's too messy. A scalpel? Too sterile. That's when I remember the superglue in my pocket. My lips curl in an evil smile.
“Ever hear about the old KGB trick, Sam?” I ask, spinning the glue in my hand. “They used this stuff on prisoners. Sealed eyelids shut. Glued lips closed. Took days to wear off. Real poetic shit.”
I crouch in front of him and flick his chin up. His eyes flutter open, red and watering.
“Wanna try a modern version?”
He whimpers, and I take that as consent. I uncork the glue with apop, then reach for his hand, the same one I drilled through.
I grip the palm open. The skin is shredded, red, and swollen. I pour the glue directly into the open wound. He jerks, howling as muscles spasm as the chemicals hit raw flesh.
