Page 55 of Primo DeLuca

The spitting man inhaled like he was preparing to spit on the bible again, but Romigi lifted one brow and allowed his gaze to burn with a flame borrowed from hell itself. The man, bleeding from his skinless cheek, turned his head away from Romigi and the bible. The other decided to place his hand atop the sacred white pages. He was wise to accept his fate and find spiritual guidance before it was too late.

“Bow your heads,” he commanded. One man bowed along with me, Lenni, and Umberto. The missing cheek one, remained staring at the wall to his left.

“Like a sheep being led to the slaughter or a lamb that is silent before his shearers, he did not open his mouth.”

He read from Isaiah 53:7 and continued. I knew more about the bible than many would believe. The passage pertained to this situation, specifically Romigi himself. It took me no time to figure out why he chose that specific passage. It wasn’t for the reason one might assume.

Romigi's true nature was very often overlooked because of his profession. He was letting these men know that he was every bit the devil as every other man in this room, and he would be the one to ultimately lead them to their slaughter.

He allowed them a few minutes of peace and solitude, his head bowed while he continued to recite more scripture in a low, almost reassuring tone. He drew back and closed the bible with the hand he held it in. The resounding smack the pages made caused the one man to draw back his hand in a rush.

Romigi pulled up the wide arm of his robe and the keys attached to the thick bracelet around his wrist resembled keys that opened doors in an ancient castle. He was the only one with a set. He wore the keys around a copper bracelet and like someone with their pandora bracelet, he added a key for every new lock he needed to open.

He walked across the office with the silent grace of a cat and stopped at the four black metal file cabinets before bending at the one pushed up against the wall. He used one of the keys to open the bottom drawer.

Once inside the drawer, he punched in a series of numbers, the sequence of at least twenty, before an elongated beep sounded. The middle two file cabinets began to drop into the floor, the motor moving them sounded like the hum of an elevator.

Lenni and Umberto’s expressions were that of two kids about to receive special gifts. I personally knew that they were about to see something that only a handful of DeLucas had witnessed.

The two file cabinets aligned perfectly with a set of stairs that would lead into the small prison that, like the keys, resembled a dungeon from an ancient castle.

Romigi preferred the old school methods of carrying out his family duties. Instead of incinerators, he dug graves. Instead of using a cleaning crew, he cleaned up his own scenes. Instead of neat head shots to take out an enemy, he held on to them and bestowed long-term punishments that ravaged a man’s soul from his body while impressing upon them spiritual enlightenment.

One of his nicknames was Father Time because he didn’t rush the death process unless it couldn’t be helped. I admired Romigi’s skills and slow precision but didn’t have that kind of patience.

Umberto and Lenni gripped each of the men by the arms when Romigi signaled us to follow him. The men fought the brothers punching, kicking, and cursing. I didn’t blame them for fighting. I would have done everything in my power to free myself of a situation like this one.

We entered the dark path, the steps barely illuminated by the light shining in from the office. The men continued to resist, fighting against the inevitable truth unfolding with every dark step the brothers dragged them down.

Romigi reached up and turned a knob that made the fire flickering in the wall sconce grow brighter, but it did very little to chase away the shadows. We continued our descent, Romigi leading, Umberto and Lenni with the men followed with loud clumpy steps, while I brought up the rear.

At the bottom of the stairs, a chilling breeze circled us, the bite of cold in direct contrast to the eighty-nine degree July heat outside.

Rock, stone, and steel. The walls, the floor, even the beds the prisoners slept on were hard and cold and carved into the walls like crypts. The room was a perfect circle with a large five-pointed star painted white in the center of the floor to stand out against the dim setting.

There were four small cells that circled the main floor like a small arena. Each room was aligned with a point of the star, the final point aimed at the stairs we descended. Three of the four cells housed men that Romigi was keeping here for one reason or another. I didn’t ask and he didn’t volunteer to tell me. One of the prisoners was groaning an agonizing cry so icy, it almost seemed to intensify the chill in the air.

I had my own dark prison of sorts to be concerned about. Besides, Romigi’s set up, which usually had an audience of other prisoners, seemed to work wonders on getting people to talk.

Lenni and Umberto managed to wrestle the men into the large slab of concrete the size and height of a bench, sitting inside the body of the star.

The men put up a good enough fight that Romigi was forced to lift his bible threateningly to keep them in check. I’m sure the men had concluded by now that a quick death was better than what they might get in this place.

Affixed to the back of the thick slab of concrete were shackles connected to chains the brothers used to cuff the men’s hand behind their backs. Their feet were cuffed to the front of the slab.

I went over to one of the dark corners, where small, recessed areas like a closet sat on each side of the stairs. I pulled out a metal stand with wheels attached to the bottom and parked it in front of the men. I returned to the dark space to retrieve a small hard-covered briefcase filled with an impressive variety of gleaming cutting instruments.

I positioned the suitcase in front of the waiting men, who tracked every move I made. Umberto and Lenni, stood about four feet away next to Romigi, watching, waiting, anticipating.

Romigi and I had tortured enough people together that he usually had an idea of what I had in mind, if not, he got the picture soon enough.

Bending over I allowed my hands to run along the tops of the sharp instruments in the case while glancing up at the men, my eyes volleying between them.

“Who are you working for? Which DeLuca hired you to kill me?”

One swallowed, the other tilted his damaged cheek and chin up in stupid defiance. There was always one tough guy who volunteered himself to be the example that would inspire the others to talk.

I picked up one of the smallest instruments from the collection, a shiny scalpel that gleaned against the dim lighting of the two sconces on either side of the space. The man who volunteered as tribute, leveled an angry glare at me when I pointed the scalpel at him.

---