And for the first time in a long while, I feel so fucking close.
***
If you want to bait a wolf, you give him something he thinks he knows and watch whether he eats it.
“Remember,” I tell Edwardo while Matteo loosens the rope binding his arms, “You walk in there, you play Freddy. You say your lines.”
He rolls his wrists once the rope falls away, flexing his fingers like he’s trying to bring life back into them. He tries to square his shoulders, but it looks wrong...like a kid wearing his father’s suit. He’s about to walk into a part, and I can already smell the ending.
My men are scattered where I need them. Two outside the front, two on the street corner watching the windows, another near the alley, and Matteo’s already inside. Tugging the brim of the cheap denim baseball cap lower, I walk into the bar. The place smellslike stale hops and frying oil. A jukebox croaks out some old rock tune that bounces off the wood-paneled walls.
I slide onto a stool and order a whiskey neat, my eyes on the door to track Edwardo’s movement. He comes in exactly fifteen minutes later, looking small and thin as he crumples his way past people toward the booth at a distant corner. Rino is already there, his face half-hidden. They hug, making it seem like some sort of reunion before settling back into their seats.
I watch Edwardo’s hands as he gestures because I can’t hear their conversation over the jukebox and drunken laughter. Rino barely moves, except to signal at the waitress for another round of drinks.
It takes another fifteen minutes before I notice a difference. Edwardo has been in the same position, head slightly tilted to the side, and hands resting limply at his sides. There’s a stillness that tells me more than any blood would. He’s dead.
Rino stands, brushes his hands on his jeans as if wiping crumbs off a table, and moves slowly toward the back door.
I tip the signal to Matteo, and he peels from his spot by the wall, shadowing the bastard as I slide off my stool.
Rino’s steps quicken. He bursts into the alley, hand already diving for the pistol under his jacket...but he freezes the moment he realizes we’ve got him cornered.
Three of my men are waiting, guns raised, forming a half-circle that cuts off every direction he could run.
“Easy,” Matteo warns, stepping forward. He knocks the weapon from Rino’s hand with a brutal kick.
Rino snarls, eyes darting from one barrel to the next. “What the fuck is this? What do you want?”
I move closer, pulling off my baseball cap to let him see me clearly. “Answers.”
***
This is my favorite part of the job—torturing men for answers…watching them break. It’s a tool in the kit, and like any tool, you use what’s appropriate for the job. You don’t bring a sledgehammer to pry open a lock; you don’t use soft talk on a man who’s been hardened by bullets and bad business. I’ve got a handful of approaches I rotate through, and how I work a man depends on how he’s built.
Rino’s chained to the wall, wrists looped through iron that digs into his skin when he moves. A man like him doesn’t break easily. It’s an admirable trait, but right now, it’s a thorn in my flesh.
“You could make this easy on yourself,” he says with a thin voice, grinning at me. “Kill me if you want. I won’t tell.”
If everyone who said that got killed, I’d be burying my way to answers.
“Who sent you?” I ask again.
He laughs. “Names won’t fall out of me, man.” There’s a boldness in him that pisses me off. Pride is a currency most men spend freely, and I don’t like being looked at like I’m doing something theatrical.
I pull the lighter from my pocket, rolling it between my fingers. His gaze flicks down...then back to me. “You wanna roast me like fresh meat?” He laughs again, but it lacks its usual confidence.
I press the flame to his forearm, right along the spot Isabella got shot. He tries to stay silent, biting his lips hard enough to draw blood, but the sound comes out anyway…a raw guttural cry that rips out of him.
“Fucking kill me!” he yells, spitting blood onto the ground. “You’re wasting your time.”
The flame moves again. Each press draws a smaller animal sound; he swallows it down like he’s swallowing shame.
It might take a fucking while, but I swear I’m going to get the answers I need.
Chapter twenty-one
Isabella
