He was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. His hair was closely cropped. Black or dark brown. A nasty bruise covered the left side of his face, dried blood seeping from a wound above his eye. His head spun quickly from side to side, taking in his surroundings before landing on Stella. “Who the hell are you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
He kicked at the restraints on his feet, but they held fast. “Get me the hell out of here.”
Stella shook her head.
“Let me out before they come back, and I won’t hurt you, you have my word. Untie me.”
She shook her head again.
His face darkened, and he tugged at his arms, restrained behind his back. “You fucking bitch! Untie me now!”
Stella glanced up at the camera again.
He followed her gaze, and his eyes narrowed as he met the lens. “Whoever you are, you have no idea who you’re fucking with! My people will burn this place to the ground. You’re all dead, every last one of you. Let me go, and it’s not too late to work something out.”
He turned back to Stella. “Do you know who I am? What I can do to you?”
“I know exactly who you are, Mr. Visconti. Why do you think you’re here?”
Hearing his name seemed to unsettle him. He stopped pulling at his bonds. His eyes narrowed. “Are you one of my girls? Did Cortez put you up to this?”
“Your girls?”
“One of my whores.”
“No. I’m not one of your girls.”
“You should be—a bangin’ body like that. You’d make a fortune. I’d put you up someplace nice, like that new hotel down by the convention center, the Starington, I think it’s called. My girls get nothing but the best. Did I interrupt bath time or something? Why you wearing a robe?” He turned back to the camera. “Is this some kind of birthday present, Cortez? Pretend to kidnap me, tie me to a chair in some basement dungeon, then send in a whore to light up my birthday candle? You’ve done some crazy shit, but this takes the cake! That fucker nailed me good. Whore or not, when I’m done in here, you’ve got a beatdown coming. I can’t let something like that slide. How would that look?”
Looking back at Stella. “If you’re not one of my girls, where did Cortez find you? Coslow’s crew? How about you take off that robe—let me see what I’m working with. You put on a good show for me, maybe I’ll buy out your contract.”
Stella circled the chair, slow, casual steps. “You have a lot of girls, working for you? Your whores?”
“They come and go, but I like to keep it between thirty and fifty. Most come in from South America or Europe, though, barely speak a lick of English. A girl who looks like you who can hold a conversation, too…a girl who knows how to carry herself.” He blew out a whistle. “Whoever you’re working for, they’re wasting your time. Let me set you up.”
“The girls you bring in from other countries. You make them promises, too, don’t you? A better life? A place to stay? A future?”
Visconti shook his head. “Naw, I buy them. Sometimes I trade them for drugs or guns. Everything’s got a price, everything is a negotiation. What’s your price?”
“Prostitution, drugs, weapons…do you think it’s okay to talk about such things with me? What if I’m a cop?”
“You’re no cop, you’re a whore. Too young for much of anything else.” He tugged at the ropes again. “You’ve wasted enough of my time. I’ve got shit to do. Untie these.” He kicked his legs, but the ropes held fast.
“My people, they used arbor knots,” Stella told him. “The more you struggle, the tighter they’ll get.”
“Your people?”
“I don’t know anyone named Cortez or Coslow. The men who rendered you unconscious outside your home in Squirrel Hill, the ones who brought you here, they work for me. They brought you to me.”
“No way they got past my men to do that. This is some bullshit prank.” He turned toward the door. “Cortez, let me the fuck out of here!”
“The three men tasked with guarding you, the ones who were in the car with you, they’re all dead. I imagine your memory is fuzzy due to the bump on your head, but it will come back to you. If it doesn’t, I suppose you’ll have to take my word for it,” Stella said. “My men killed them, took you, and brought you here. Brought you to me.”
Visconti glanced back up at the camera, then around the room, then at the ropes securing him to the chair. “Where is ‘here?’”
Stella ignored the question. She continued to circle his chair. “You, Mr. Raymond Visconti of 83 Nob Hill Road, among other residences, are one of the worst human traffickers in the country. You’ve plucked runaways off the street, kidnapped, recruited, or otherwise coerced hundreds of women and children just in the past year. More in the last six months than the previous three years combined. Over the course of your career, you are responsible for the deaths of one hundred and sixty-three people either directly at your hand, your order, or as the result of ‘business’ practices.’”
