Page 63 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I say it until my voice breaks, until I feel something inside me start to fracture.
The phone slips from my hand and hits the floor, the sharp crack of it splitting the quiet, but I don't move to pick it up.
I just stand there, head bowed, fists clenched, every part of me screaming for a second chance that will never come.
9
ENZO
Five years later
The floor under my boots is old Sicilian tile, hard and cold, worn smooth in places from years of use.
It stinks of sweat and rust, not to mention the burn of something sour and human: fresh fear rising from the man in the chair.
He knows what's coming.
I take my time rolling up my sleeves, folding the black fabric past my elbows without looking away.
Each turn is slow, exact, because in this line of work, you don't rush.
You don't fidget.
You don't show nerves.
My audience is bound at the wrists, duct tape layered with rope, ankles kicked out in front of him like he's already given up trying to fight.
Blood streaks the side of his face.
There's not much yet. It's just enough to make him blink through it while he stares up at me with those disconcertingly bright eyes.
He's sniffling now, making those quiet choking sounds that happen when the body gets ahead of the mind, when survival instincts kick in before logic has a chance to form a plan.
He put up a good fight, even managed to inflict a minor injury on me, but in the end, this is what it all comes down to.
I've seen it too many times—the moment when a man realizes that his screams won't reach anyone, and even if they do, no one will come.
I crouch in front of him, watching the way his shoulders flinch just from the sound of my knuckles cracking.
He's young.
Thought he could make a little extra on the side by trading routes, supply docks, a few names.
Someone whispered promises into his ear, probably a rival family dangling just enough to make the risk feel worth it.
It never is.
"Names. Now."
He whimpers, more noise than words, his eyes darting toward the basement stairs like salvation might still be waiting up there.
Patience. Not force.
That's what men like him require.
Force makes them scream.
Patience makes them talk.
