Page 18 of Twisted Knight

I knew that was not a joke either; he was a true sadist.

The guy's eyes widened when he finally came back to full consciousness and started to spat things in Albanian. I didn’t need to speak the language to know that none of his words were friendly.

Matteo seemed completely unfazed by the outburst as he removed his suit jacket and put it on the back of the chair he had been previously occupying.

He concentrated on the man who was still shouting in Albanian. His face was red, the veins of his neck almost popping as he glared at us, the hate behind his eyes, unmissable.

He moved his arms, trying to remove his restraint, then screamed in pain as the metal cut into his flesh.

That binding was one of Matteo's pride and joys—rope mixed with barbed wire. The more you struggled, the more it gripped you.

Matteo stood in front of him stoically, his light-blue eyes just as cool and expressionless as the ice man he was.

“Are you done?” he asked with a calm, even tone once the man stopped screaming. “I won’t lie to you; you’re going to die tonight. There’s no question about it, but you can choose how you die. If you speak now, I’ll give you a quick and painless death,” he said, tapping his holster holding his gun. “Or we can make a game of it.” He gestured to his basement wall, which proudly held most of his torture equipment. “I've got enough fluid and skills to keep you alive at least two days in excruciating pain. Personally, I’d like for you to pick option two. I finished my show on Netflix and I’m a little bored.”

“What show?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Sociopath Unchained.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “Isn’t that the masterclass you taught?”

Matteo’s lips lifted slightly on the corner; it was the closest the man ever came to a genuine smile. “It was indeed.” He turned to the guy who was looking at Matteo with burning hate in his eyes. “So, what will it be?”

“Fuck off, Italian filth. I’m not telling you shit!”

Matteo’s face broke into a wide grin, like a kid on Christmas morning. “Good answer!” He turned toward me. “Do you want to stay and watch me play?”

I shook my head with a low chuckle. “No, thanks. I think I’ll go upstairs and have some of the amazing lasagna your housekeeper made.”

He shrugged. “Fai come vuoi. I’ll see you in a while; just help yourself.”

I threw the Albanian another look, almost feeling bad for him. He had no clue what was about to be unleashed on him.

I called Luca as soon as I closed the basement door behind me and gave him a quick rundown of the situation.

I grabbed a container of lasagna, and I’d just put it in the oven when Matteo walked into the kitchen with a sigh.

I looked at him as he wiped his wet hands on a red towel. I suspect it was a color picked on purpose.

“Already?” I looked down at my watch. “It’s only been twenty minutes.”

“I know.” He shook his head. “It’s always the ones who think they are tough who crack first. I just put like what? Two razor blades under his nails and he was singing like a nightingale.”

“A canary?”

“What?” Matteo frowned, throwing the towel on his shoulder. “Cantava come un usignolo.”

I nodded. “I know in Italian it’s nightingale, but in English it is canary.”

“Perche?”

“Perche no?” I replied. I had no fucking clue why; it was just the way it was.

He rolled his eyes, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Thank you for the English lesson of ‘nobody fucking cares.’ I’ll teach you how to torture one day.”

“Did you find out anything?” I asked as I knew better than to antagonize him further. I let my eyes trail down and stopped at his collar. “You’ve got some blood there.” I touch the corner of my own collar.

“He was a bleeder,” he confirmed with a nod.

---