Page 63 of Corrupted Deception

“I’ve heard my brother have a conversation or two before,stronzo.Something tells me you’re about to have a very bad day.”

***

“Grazie, Vito. You can go,” I told him as I set down my briefcase in the warehouse’s back office and opened it up.

He’d secured Pablo to one of the chairs in front of the big wooden desk with nicks and gouges in it. His wrists and ankles were bound to the arms and legs of the chair and his hands taped down flat.

“Of course,Signor,” Vito said after a brief hesitation, and he left the room, closing the office door behind him with a quiet click.

Alone with a single task in front of me.Thiswas familiar. I took a deep, cleaning breath and sat up on the desk top, hands clasped loosely in front of me, legs dangling over the side. I stared at Pablo for a long moment, feeling like myself again. Calm and collected. In control.

Pablo stared back at me, silent behind the gag in his mouth.

“You do understand that this can’t be quick and painless,si?” I asked, then gave him a moment to process that.

“If you’d taken a shot at me, it might still have been on the table,” I said, shaking my head. “But you took your gun, Pablo, and you pointed it at my brother—my flesh and blood—and you pulled the trigger.”

“Hijueputa,” he hissed while his eyes glared daggers and his breathing sped up.

“But you can make it end,” I offered up that small bit of hope. “You can choose whether you want this over and done with today or if you want me to keep you here and come back to visit, day after day, for as long as it takes to get what I need.”

I shrugged and hopped down from the table.

“I should tell you, I’m a patient man,” I said as I glanced over the tools still gleaming and neatly arranged in my briefcase. “However much willpower you think you have, whatever tolerance for pain you think you’ve built up… I will outlast you,” I said as I pulled the gag from his mouth. “This will not be pleasant, but you can make it end—I just want you to remember that.”

He continued to glare, silent, but for all his bravado, I could feel the fissures of doubt begin to form in him, letting his fear show through.

“All right, let’s get started, shall we?” I asked as I selected a slim scalpel with a longer than usual blade.

He looked at me, then the blade. His whole body was rigid as he tried to maneuver himself away. When that didn’t work, he pressed his bare feet hard against the floor and tried to push the chair back.

It didn’t budge.

“You can probably figure out my most pressing questions at the moment, so let’s get those out of the way first. Who sent you to kill my brother, and why?” I asked.

It didn’t surprise me when he gave no response. This man would crack, but he wouldn’t get there easily.

I shoved the rag into his mouth, then turned my attention to his right hand.

“I’m going to sever your median nerve, Pablo,” I told him as I envisioned the scalpel’s path through flesh and between bones. “And then, you won’t be able to hold a gun in this hand, never mind pull the trigger.”

The moment I was confident, I sliced and severed in one swift move.

He roared behind the gag and jerked in his chair as tears streamed from his eyes, cascading down his beet red cheeks. But as the blinding shock wore off, he settled into the chair and panted, slow and even, regaining his composure.

“I’m going to ask you again, Dmitri, but before I do,” I said, setting the scalpel down on the desk, “I want to tell you that what I just did was a ‘two’ on the pain scale. If you tell me what I want to know, I might feel inclined to refrain from climbing much higher on that scale.”

He glared and panted but not much else.

“Who sent you to kill my brother, and why?” I asked.

But of course, he didn’t answer me. Not when I severed the median nerve of his left hand or removed his fingers. Not even when I punctured through the saphenous nerves of both his knees.

“What… what time is it?” he panted while his chin rested heavily on his chest, tears and saliva dripping off it.

I chuckled. “If you’re late for a date, I’m afraid you’re not going to make it.”

“What time… is it?” he persisted.

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