I have broken many men in my lifetime, but I’ve never been tasked with putting one back together.
I meetmy men at a warehouse in Hoboken where the Aponte family conducts these sorts of affairs, far away from potential witnesses and where screams fall on indifferent ears. Despite Giovanni’s reluctance in giving me the names of the men who raped him at a house party two months ago, their identities were not hard to find. Matthew is dead for all intents and purposes. I spun the story and instructed my people to spread the word. My contact at the coroner’s office helped make it official, and I’ve had his grandfather’s fortune transferred to offshore accounts so they will be available to Giovanni when he’s ready. In the future when he’s able to take over the family business, a new story of mistaken identity will need to be fabricated, but I’ll worry about that bridge when we cross it.
In the meantime, Matthew’s social media accounts have become memorials, and from those, I was able to glean an astonishing amount of information all revolving around one party on Fifth Avenue that got “a little too out of control.” As it turns out, one of the partygoers filmed the assault, and I had my tech expert provide me a copy for the sole purpose of identifying his attackers before scrubbing it from the internet altogether.
Most of his rapists are upper-crust, blue blood brats. I knew there was a personal connection—why else would Giovanni protect them—but I didn’t know they were his former classmates and friends, as well as a couple other scumbags who saw an opportunity and took it. I had my men round them up and deliver them to me here.
When I walk into the large open warehouse, I am met with their gagged groans and muffled pleas as well as the stench of sweat, piss, and fear. It reminds me of a dog kennel, and I wish it were as easy to put them down. There are so many of them—nearly a dozen—and when I think of the abuse they inflicted upon the boy I care for so much, I want to slash all their throats like I did the rapist boyfriend of his cunt mother.
But a dozen dead bodies—especially the wealthy sons of Manhattan—would be hard to hide. I haven’t lasted this long in the business by being careless.
I am comforted to know that Dr. Greyson and a couple of his medical staff are in the room next door, prepping for surgery. Dr. Greyson assures me the procedures should go off without a hitch and if one of them dies as a result, well, I suppose it’s their own shitty luck.
“Gentlemen,” I announce to the echoing room, and everyone falls silent. “I’ve invited you here today because I have a debt to settle. You see, you hurt someone I care for deeply, and a lot of you thought you’d gotten away with it. But alas the devil has come to collect his due.”
I pause and their pleas begin anew, so many bleating lambs being led to slaughter, only they are not so innocent. I’ve heard their lies too—so many hazy memories and alibis.“I wasn’t even in Manhattan that night.”Those too resume in a chorus of lament. The ones who are silent I almost prefer, though their punishment will be the same. One man is crying. Another wets himself. This offers me some satisfaction. They’ll suffer worse indignities before the day is through.
“I know, I know,” I say. “You saw an opportunity and you took it. You decided to ask for forgiveness instead of consent, a grave mistake. And unfortunately for you, your bad behavior has caught up with you this time.”
I signal to one of my men to start the chainsaw, one good rip that gets the screamers to bawl and wail. Even the silent ones seem unraveled by the sound. I’ll admit that I do like a little theater. The chainsaw quiets and I tell the men, “But I am willing to show you mercy, something you certainly didn’t show to my boy. I’m going to let you leave here with your insignificant lives, cocks intact, as well as one of your balls. And when your wives and lovers ask why you only have one testicle, what are you going to tell them?”
There are no replies. No one even hazards a guess. Instead, I am met with a crescendo of panic and probably some disbelief. Yesterday, they thought this was some cruel prank, but today they know better.
“Shh, shh, shh,” I say to settle them. “You’re going to tell them that you put your dick someplace where it didn’t belong, and someone had to teach you a lesson. Now, who wants to go first?”
There are no volunteers, so I motion to one of the hooded figures and my men drag him, twisting and flailing, into Dr. Greyson’s operating room. My instructions were that they be conscious during the procedure. Their screams of terror only heighten the dread for the rest, and there is a nice symmetry to them waiting for their turn to be punished just as they waited their turn to violate my precious boy. When men act like animals, they must be treated as such.
“I want their balls preserved in a big glass jar,” I tell Dr. Greyson when he’s about halfway through the surgeries and taking a break to eat the food my men have brought in. I have to hand it to the good doctor, he is a consummate professional. He’s even stapled bags of antibiotics with printed instructions to their clothing to make sure there’s no infection.
“You want it delivered to the penthouse?” he asks right before tearing into his meatball hoagie with gusto.
“No, keep it somewhere safe for me.” Giovanni’s condition is already too fragile to be confronted with this keepsake, but I would like to visit it whenever I’m feeling resentful because my boy no longer smiles. “Giovanni doesn’t need to know about this.” I give him a pointed look and he nods.
“Boss, whaddaya want us to do with them when the doctor is finished?” one of my men asks.
“Keep them here until 4:00 a.m., then dump them in Central Park.”
“You going to stick around for the rest?” Dr. Greyson asks. He knows how I like to see a job through to completion.
“Not this time.” I glance at my Rolex, a gift from Giovanni’s grandfather. I need to wrap up here. I’ve been away for too long.
2
“Hard day at work?” Giovanni asks when I greet him a little while later. There’s a blood stain on the sleeve of my dress shirt that he notices as I’m removing my cufflinks. Dr. Greyson offered me the first cut and I took it, mostly as a ceremonial gesture. The man was a bleeder. Nothing gets by Giovanni.
“Challenging, yes, but rewarding.” Perhaps he would like to know that his rapists are now less one testicle, but I think I will save that information for when he’s more stable.
Like a duckling, he’s followed me into the bedroom to watch me undress; then he follows me into the bathroom where I turn on the hot water. When I’m in the apartment, he doesn’t let me out of his sight. He undresses as well, so that he might join me in the shower. While he was still recovering from his injuries, he couldn’t maneuver himself into the shower or wash himself without help, so I joined him. The routine stuck. Giovanni is touch-starved, so I’ve implemented some rituals in order get some of his physical needs met. As I said before, I have no idea what I’m doing.
“May I wash you?” he asks when we’re both engulfed in the steamy mist. He says it as if he’s been waiting all day for this moment to arrive.
“You may.”
After he’s cleaned me thoroughly in the way I’ve instructed him to do, including shampooing my hair with a light scalp massage, I return the favor. I try very hard to ignore his erection bobbing with enthusiasm between his slim hips. Instead, I turn him around so that he’s facing away from me. I’m now confronted with his perfectly sculpted ass and the two dimples on his lower back. He was so very thin when he first came to live with me—too many drugs and sleepless nights. I could count his ribs and the knobs in his spine. His bones are not quite so prominent now, but I’d be happier if he gained a little more weight.
My movements are clinical as I wash him, but his skin is like butter—smooth, rich, and covered in the finest cornsilk hair. He’s been laying out on the terrace in the afternoons at my insistence to get more color in his face, so his limbs are turning a lovely golden hue, almost metallic in their shimmer.He would bruise so beautifully,I think, then reprimand myself because he’s been hurt enough to last a lifetime.
“Feels so good,” he murmurs as my hands skate across his shoulders, gently massaging. “I love your hands, Valentin.”
