27. Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
Fabrizio
F lanked by two of my most trusted men, I stride confidently into the secluded warehouse. The echo of our footsteps on the cold, hard concrete floor reverberates through the vast, empty space, creating an eerie symphony that sets the foreboding tone for what’s about to unfold.
The warehouse, long abandoned for other purposes than today’s, has a desolate charm, with rusted metal beams and dusty, broken windows letting in slivers of sunlight. As I saunter toward the dimly lit back room, the air grows colder, and the distinctively audible noises are those of camaraderie. The frigid air carries snippets of light-hearted conversations, occasionally punctuated by bursts of laughter, reminiscent of casual colleagues enjoying a fleeting break from their arduous work. Work that, for them, will be over relatively soon.
As I round the corner, all noise ceases abruptly, as if a silent command has been issued. The five men scattered across the room immediately straighten their postures as I approach. Each of them nods in respectful greeting, their eyes briefly meeting mine before shifting to our special guest for today.
Michael Brenton had been remarkably easy to track down; oblivious to the fact that his identity had been uncovered, he was effortlessly picked up from his home. It seemed almost too easy, or perhaps the man was simply too naive for his own good.
In the center of the room, he sits huddled in a wooden chair, his hands bound tightly behind him. His face is ashen and devoid of any color, and beads of sweat form on his forehead despite the cold. His body shudders slightly yet visibly, betraying his fear.
Over the years, I have seen men far larger and more rugged than him crumble when confronted with their imminent fate. Yet, I have yet to determine how the situation at hand will be resolved. While I am typically no advocate of brute violence, the men in service to my family certainly are—each of them brutal and effective in their actions. They are more than willing to teach our guest a valuable lesson: every action has a consequence. It remains to be seen whether Michael Brenton will be with us long enough to learn from his past misconceptions.
Finally, he dares to look up and meet my gaze. “Please, you’re making a mistake, I—” he whines in a pleading voice, desperation evident.
“I don’t make mistakes,” I state flatly, cutting him off. I turn my back on him and walk to the desk at the other end of the room. The sound of rustling and the scraping of the chair on the concrete floor, followed by a pained grunt, reaches my ears. I take my time removing my jacket, neatly placing it over the back of a wooden chair and grabbing the Glock from the table. The weight of the gun feels reassuring in my hand. I sense Michael’s eyes burning into my back as I shove the gun into the waistband of my pants before adjusting my cuffs. As soon as I turn around, Michael jumps off his seat but is immediately pushed back down by one of my men. A few swift blows to his face later, blood begins to trickle down the side of his face, and his left eye starts to swell shut.
“See, Michael, we don’t have to do this the hard way,” I explain to him, my voice calm and composed. I take slow, deliberate steps toward him, my hands casually shoved into my pockets. “All you need to do is give me some answers.”
“I-I don’t know what you want from me,” he stammers, panic tinging his voice.
“You went into a preschool with a gun,” I tell him, enunciating each word as if he doesn’t already know. “Aiming it at an innocent woman and two children. My children,” I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. “Why?”
Michael looks up at me, and there is no hint of surprise in his eyes, confirming my earlier suspicion that he knew exactly who he was targeting. “I-I don’t… I can’t…”
Lucas, one of my men, steps forward, his fists clenched at his sides. I raise my hand to stop him, knowing that the guys will have more than enough time to have their fun later.
“I am not exactly known for my patience, so I recommend you think fast about how you want to do this,” I warn.
“I—” he stutters, his eyes closing as he sighs deeply before speaking with a trembling voice. “I needed the money and—and no one was supposed to get hurt,” he spills out, desperation seeping through his words. “I swear! She said—”
“She?” I interrupt him sharply. Michael gulps hard, his eyes glued to my shoes. I take a quick step forward, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at me. “Who is she?”
“She—she said she’s…” he gulps again, struggling to find his voice, “…your wife.”
The room falls into a heavy silence, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a dark cloud.
My wife.
For a split second, time seems to stand still, and the world around me grinds to an abrupt halt. I find myself standing there, eyes wide, caught in a state of paralyzing stupor. It’s as if the ground beneath me has vanished, leaving me in a freefall between the instinct to freeze and the urge to flee—to get out of this room, this building—anything to escape the horror unfolding in my mind. The shock is so overwhelming that I can’t move, my heart thudding in my chest like a battle drum. Michael’s eyes dart from the door to my rigid frame, towering over him, probably weighing his chances of escape or bracing himself for whatever comes next. His fear is almost tangible, mirroring the chaos within me. For a brief moment, our eyes lock in a silent exchange of dread and uncertainty.
Without uttering a word, I pivot sharply and stride across the room. Each step feels like an enormous effort as if I’m trudging through quicksand. I need to get out of here. Now. The thought of needing fresh air and space, something that doesn’t remind me of this nightmare, is the only thing driving me forward.
My mind is a whirlwind, thoughts racing at breakneck speed as I burst out of the building, only stopping when I reach my car. I slump against it, staring at my own shaken reflection in the window. The cold afternoon air offers no solace; my chest tightens further with each breath. The biting wind cuts through my clothes, but it feels insignificant next to the numbness enveloping me.
The footsteps behind me come to a halt. I don’t turn around; I don’t care who it is. Yet, I can sense his hesitance without even looking.
“Sir, do you need—” Lucas’s voice pierces the fog in my mind, cautious and concerned. His presence is a jarring intrusion into my spiraling thoughts.
“No,” I snap.
I don’t need anything. I don’t want to hear anything.
Several moments of strained silence pass before he speaks again. “What should we do with… him?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Do whatever you want, but make sure he gets home afterward. Alive ,” I order. Though I couldn’t care less about Michael Brenton, I’m not interested in dragging this out any longer than necessary.
“Yes, sir,” Lucas responds crisply. I hear the sound of his footsteps retreating, leaving me alone with my turmoil. On autopilot, I climb into the car and drive home, gripping the steering wheel tightly. The drive is a blur, my thoughts a chaotic tangle of disbelief and anguish.
I never imagined it would come to this, but the dreaded words echo relentlessly in my mind. This cannot be real—my wife is dead. My wife is dead.
The finality of it washes over me in waves, each more devastating than the last. And I know, as surely as the sun will rise, that it’s the truth. The irrevocable truth that has shattered my world.
When my phone rings and I see it’s my brother, Marcello, my nerves are already frayed. Whatever he wants, I don’t have the patience for it. Just seeing his name on the screen sends a fresh wave of irritation through me.
”What is it?” I bark into the phone, my irritation mounting with every second. As I listen to my brother’s words, an impossible rage builds within me. It feels like the very ground beneath me is disintegrating. Everything that could go wrong has—almost. The frustration and helplessness are overwhelming, threatening to consume me entirely.
“You need to listen to me before you freak out,” he says calmly, his voice a stark contrast to the storm inside me. “The twins are safe. They’re with Dad.”
”Why—what the—” I stammer, unable to comprehend. The relief is fleeting, quickly replaced by a fresh wave of confusion and panic.
”It’s just—the teacher. She’s gone.”