The word lands like a slap.
I don't react.
"You're going to tell me who hired you," I say.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
He laughs again. Louder this time. "I don't think so."
"You will."
"Or what?" He jerks his chin toward my chair. "You'll roll over my toes?"
Behind me, I hear Nico shift. Pietro stays silent.
They're watching.
Prove you can still do this, the call said. Prove you're still a Sartori.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," I say. "Who sent you?"
The man grins. Blood stains his teeth. "Go fuck yourself."
I look at Pietro. "Give me a blade."
Pietro reaches into his jacket. Pulls out a folding knife. Tosses it to me.
I catch it one-handed.
The man watches me flip it open. His grin falters slightly.
"You think that scares me?" he says. "I've been cut before."
"Not by me."
I wheel forward until I'm directly in front of him. Close enough to smell his sweat. His fear underneath the bravado.
"Last chance," I say.
"I told you." He meets my eyes. Tries to hold them. "I won't talk."
"Everyone talks."
"Not me. You can't make me. Look at you." He laughs, but it sounds forced now. Desperate. "You can't even stand up. What are you going to do from that chair? You're not capable of?—"
I grab his shirt.
Yank him down toward me.
His chains rattle. His body jerks. Suddenly his face is inches from mine.
"You think this chair makes me weak?" My voice is quiet. Controlled. "You think because I can't walk, I can't hurt you?"
His eyes are wide now. The bravado cracking.
I release his shirt. He swings back.
