Page 1 of His Ruthless Claim

1

LUCA

There is nothing better than simple organization. In a world like mine, where nearly every moment is bloody, I take the time to enjoy the rare moments when things are as they should be - clean, controlled, calm.

It's the only things I feel now.

I arrange each implement with methodical care, ensuring precise spacing between the gleaming metal tools. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the warehouse's concrete floor, reflecting off the polished steel surface where my instruments wait.

My current target's breath hitches. His chest heaves against the zip ties securing him to the metal chair. Sweat darkens the collar of his cheap polyester shirt.

I lift a scalpel, rotating it to catch the light. The edge requires testing. My thumbnail grazes the blade - perfect. "Where is my shipment, Mr. Torres?" My voice remains level, as it always does.

"Please, I don't- I didn't-" His words dissolve into a wet sob.

If he thinks tears are going to work on me, he'll quickly learn he is mistaken. I'm quite aware of my reputation of beinga psychopath for my lack of emotion in every situation - I didn't even blink when I was kidnapped recently. It seems not everyone realizes just how accurate it is.

I loosen my tie, folding it with careful precision before setting it aside. Can't risk getting blood on Italian silk. Rolling up my sleeves, I study the way his pupils dilate with mounting terror. "Your associate already confirmed your involvement. I simply need the location." I check my grandfather's Rolex - time is a resource I won't waste.

"You're insane," he chokes out. "Everyone said... they said you were different from your father but-"

"Different methods. Same objectives." I select a pair of pliers, weighing them in my palm. Needle nose - for precision. "Though I find efficiency preferable to brute force."

His chair scrapes against concrete as he thrashes. "Wait! Please, I'll tell you everything!"

I pause, arching an eyebrow. "I know you will. The only variable is how many pieces remain intact when you do." My ice-blue eyes meet his, and I watch the last fragments of resistance crumble. They always do. Emotion is inefficient - it only delays the inevitable.

The scalpel feels like an extension of my hand as I step forward. "Now, shall we begin with fingers, or would you prefer to skip the formalities?"

Torres's screams echo through the warehouse, but they're background noise - no different than traffic or rain. Each cut is precise, measured. No wasted movement or excessive force. That's where most people fail during interrogation - too much emotion leads to mistakes.

I have none so it's never been a problem.

I make another careful incision along his forearm, tracking the path of veins and arteries with surgical accuracy. Blood wells up, coating my fingers. The metallic scent fills the air.

"Ready to tell me where my shipment is?" It's another thing about me that seems to unnerve people, my voice. It's always quietly calm, devoid of emotion. I wouldn't even know how to put it in there if I tried.

His head lolls forward, chin trembling. "I can't... they'll kill me..."

"And you believe I won't?" It's not a threat, not said with anger the way my father would. It's a quiet, controlled question. I wipe the scalpel clean, selecting a smaller blade. "The difference is, I can make it last weeks."

The blood on my hands catches the light, turning them crimson. For a fraction of a second, the warehouse dissolves. I'm eight years old again, pressed against shattered glass and twisted metal. Blood coats my palms as I reach for her, trying to wake her. The copper smell mixed with gasoline. Her lips moving without sound...

My fingers brush the watch face, automatic. The cool metal grounds me. I pull out my handkerchief, meticulously cleaning off the antique timepiece until the memory fades like smoke.

Correction - there is one sliver of emotion left in my body. Something that only one memory can pull out before it is crushed under the weight of my control.

Torres whimpers, but I barely register it. The blood will take hours to clean from the watch's delicate mechanisms, which I will do when I get home. Mother always said to take care of it. I check the time - we've been here forty-seven minutes.

"Let's continue." I select another instrument. "I find most people last approximately six hours before psychological breaks occur. We have time."

My voice remains perfectly steady. It always does. Emotion is a weakness I excised long ago, buried in the wreckage with her. Only the watch remains, ticking away the seconds with mechanical precision.

Another hour passes before the warehouse door crashes open, steel groaning on its hinges. My father's heavy footsteps echo across concrete, the scent of whiskey preceding him but barely noticeable beneath his cologne. I sigh as I pick up a cloth and start to wipe my hands.

Somehow, he always looks put together. I wonder if anyone ever realizes that he's wasted most of the time, that he is always flying off the handle because he drowns his control in a bottle. He's given the Mantiones quite the reputation for being unpredictable.

"What the fuck is this shit?" He gestures wildly at Torres, who hangs limp in his restraints. "Two hours and you're still playing doctor?"

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