3
Alessio
Kota and I stand in Demoni’s underground prison, both leaning against the iron bars with our arms crossed, watching Chris squirm in the chair like a trapped rat.
Kota’s silent, waiting for my move.
The single flickering bulb above us gives just enough light to see the sweat beading off his greasy forehead, the way it trickles down his temples, soaking into the collar of his cheap-ass suit.
This place was built for misery.
There’s only two cells, but they’re identical, with cold concrete floors and stains from past lessons learned the hard way.
These cells are rarely used, but when they are, it’s never for anything good.
Chris fucking earned his place in this chair.
The dumbass thought he could pull some shit at my casino, sneaking in underage girls like Demoni was some kind of trafficking ring.
The sleazy bastard must’ve thought I’d turn a blind eye or worse, that I’d play along.
Big fucking mistake.
The Commission has a strict code: no women, no children.
That’s non-negotiable.
When security told him to get the hell out, he got desperate and tried to make a run for it, grabbing chips off the blackjack table like a complete fucking idiot.
That’s when my guys restrained him and put him down here.
Now he’s here, strapped to a chair, bound by his wrists and ankles.
He’s stuck in a small-ass cell that reeks of mold and the metallic stench of old blood.
His eyes keep darting to the table beside him, filled with my supplies—tools that have seen many men before him, tools that have stories to tell.
Then he glances around the room, like his men are about to burst in and save his sorry ass.
Aside from the main entrance leading into the casino, there’s a back door, but that’s mainly used for removal.
Which is always guarded when the cell’s in use, like tonight.
I push off the cell and step forward, while Kota remains by the door with his arms still crossed.
Chris flinches, his breathing is coming out faster and more erratically.
The ropes around his wrists bite into his skin, deep red marks already forming from his weak-ass attempts at struggling.
Fucking pathetic.
“Let’s skip the bullshit. Why were you in my casino?”
His Adam’s apple bobs, his throat working hard to swallow, but he still doesn’t speak.
He knows his time is running out, and he’s a dead man walking.
Well, not walking, but more like sweating and twitching in a chair, waiting for me to decide how this ends.
And depending on what he tells me, his punishment will go one of two ways: A quick death or an excruciatingly long, drawn-out session of pain and torture.
Until he can’t take anymore, and his body finally fucking gives out.
“Alright,” I say, dragging my fingers along the edge of the small steel table beside him.
The tools are lined up, stained, rusted, and well-used.
I pick up the pliers, set them back down, and reach for the old wrench.
“Let’s do this the hard way.”
Chris’s eyes widen more, watching me snap the wrench open and closed.
Then I set the wrench down and switch tools again, reaching for the needle-nose pliers.
His reaction is immediate—his whole body jerks, his hands twitching against the ropes.
That tiny flinch pisses me off.
He’s fucking weak .
The pliers clink loudly as I test their grip a few times.
His eyes are locked on them now.
I can see the panic in his eyes but the piss stain in his pants tells me he’s fucking afraid.
The fucker pissed his pants three times since we’ve been down here.
Leaning close, I can feel his ragged breath against my face.
“You know why you’re here?” I ask.
Chris doesn’t say anything, he just stares back at me with a blank look, he actually thinks he can play this game with me.
I shove the pliers into his mouth, forcing his jaw open with zero fucks for how rough I am.
His teeth clack against the metal, trying to hold his mouth shut, but I don’t stop.
“Last fucking chance. Speak.”
Nothing but fucking crickets.
And his silence seals his fate.
I tighten my grip and pull hard.
The room fills with the sickening scrape of metal against enamel, that sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
His muffled grunts turn into garbled, choked cries, his body jerking hard against the chair.
Blood spills over his lips, coating his chin a deep red.
But the stupid bastard still tries to hold it in.
That’s fine, everyone breaks.
It’s just a matter of how much pressure it takes .
I drop the first tooth onto the floor.
It hits the concrete with a soft ping.
Then I go for another.
Then another.
After five, he’s still clinging to whatever loyalty or stupidity is keeping his mouth shut.
That’s when I grab the bottle of hydrochloric acid from the table, slowly unscrewing the cap directly in front of Chris’s face.
The sharp, acrid smell burns my nostrils, but I don’t react.
Instead, I tip the bottle just enough to let the liquid drip onto his thigh.
The liquid hisses first, then sizzles from the fabric of his pants, melting away, exposing raw, blistering skin beneath.
The scent of burning flesh overpowers the smell of mold and hydrochloric acid.
Chris stiffens, his jaw locking, and a strangled noise catches in his throat.
He won’t scream.
Not yet.
But his body is breaking down, his muscles shake violently, and his fingers start to twitch.
I raise a brow.
“Tough guy, huh?”
The blood running down his chin is thick, pooling at his collar.
His face goes pale, his lips pressed so tight they almost disappear, but I can hear the wet, gurgling sound in his throat.
Still, no words .
I shake my head and pour a little more, trailing it up his torso.
He gasps, and his body jolts, but he bites back the scream.
If I weren’t going to kill him, I might even respect his resilience.
But admiration won’t save him.
I tilt my head, watching as the acid eats through his skin, the raw flesh bubbling beneath it.
His body sinks deeper into the chair like he’s trying to escape the pain, but there’s no escaping this.
Chris is still holding out, stubborn as ever, he thinks he has a choice in how this ends, because burning his fucking flesh and pulling out his teeth wasn’t bad enough.
And yet, he’s still trying to be a tough guy.
Admirable.
Stupid as fuck, but admirable.
Kota leans against the wall, arms crossed, with an amused smirk tugging at his lips.
“This is why I stick to shooting people. Quick, easy, minimal cleanup.”
I crack my knuckles, glancing at Kota just as my other men start filling the room.
I wipe the blood off my hands with the rag one of my men hand me, my gaze fixed on Chris.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I murmur, tossing the rag on the ground.
“Bullets are forgettable. Pain lingers.” Time to step it up.
Kota chuckles, shaking his head.
“And let me guess,” he muses, strolling toward the cabinet.
“Dentist time’s over, and now you wanna play orthopedic surgeon?” He pulls out a wooden mallet, testing the weight in his hand.
I roll my shoulders.
“Nah, I think it’s time for something a little more medieval.”
He exhales dramatically, shaking his head with a grin.
“I almost forgot about that thing.” He cocks a brow, glancing at me.
“You always had a weird thing about pain, man. You sure you don’t wanna see someone about that?”
“Why?” I smirk, stepping back so my men can move in to untie Chris from the chair.
“Torture’s therapeutic enough.”
Kota snorts but doesn’t argue.
We share a knowing grin, watching my men drag Chris toward my prized possession—the Judas Cradle.
The cradle itself isn’t much to look at, but it makes my balls tingle.
It’s a heavy steel frame with a sharp, pyramidal point sticking up from the center.
Simple, but fucking effective.
There’s no fast death with this one.
No quick, merciful way out.
The pain is slow, unrelenting, inch by agonizing inch.
Chris thrashes as my men strap him down, but it’s useless.
He’s exactly where I want him.
Trapped, helpless, forced to feel every second of what’s coming .
“Five days,” I say, watching them strap his arms behind his back.
“That’s the longest anyone’s lasted on this thing.”
Kota leans back against the wall again, watching like we’re about to enjoy a fucking magic trick.
“Think this one’s got the balls for it?”
I shrug.
“Doubt it. But I like a good surprise.”
The first few minutes are easy.
The pointed steel seat will barely kiss his flesh.
He probably thinks he can outlast this, or that he has to sit still to get through it.
They always think that.
Chris grits his teeth, his body locking up as the metal tip begins to dig deeper.
He hisses, rocking slightly in an attempt to reposition himself.
It only makes things worse.
His movements add pressure, the pain spreading like fire through his body.
I crouch beside him, so he can look me in the eyes when I speak.
“It’s cute, watching you try to fight it.” My fingers tap against the steel frame.
“Thing is, you can’t win. You’ll either talk or be impaled in a way no man wants to be.”
His bloody jaw clenches, but he still keeps his mouth shut.
Kota whistles, shaking his head.
“Stubborn little shit. What do you think, Boss? We throw in some weights, help him make up his mind?”
I glance at Chris, the way his face has already gone pale, sweat beading along his hairline.
His body is shaking, muscles burning from trying to hold himself up.
But it won’t last.
Not with what I have planned.
I lean in, my voice barely a whisper, “If I add weight to your legs, Chris, the pressure will triple. You’ll sink faster. The point will force its way inside, little by little, tearing through you. And the best part?” I smirk.
“The pain won’t kill you. Not right away. No, this thing is made for suffering. A true pain in the ass.”
His lips part, a shaky exhale escaping, but no words.
He knows, whether he admits it yet or not, this is where he dies.
Kota clicks his tongue.
“Damn. He’s still holding out. Guy must really believe in whatever cause he’s fighting for.”
I shake my head.
“Nah. He’s just stupid.”
Chris lets out a strangled sound, his muscles spasming from exhaustion.
The slightest flinch sends a fresh wave of pain through him, his entire body jerking against the restraints .
“Tell me what I need to know,” I seethe, watching as his head lolls forward, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Nothing.
I sigh, stepping back.
“Alright, then.” I nod to my men.
“Add the weights.”
Chris’s eyes snap open, wild with panic, but I’ve already turned away.
I don’t need to see the moment he realizes what’s about to happen.
I already know how this ends.
I head upstairs from the cells, toward my office, with Kota following close behind.
We walk through Demoni’s , the casino my father built from the ground up, around thirty years ago.
It’s a blend of luxury and a darker edge, something you can feel the moment you walk in.
The deep red carpets and low lighting create an atmosphere that’s both refined and a little sinister.
We walk through the main floor, and I take in the velvet drapes and gold accents.
Every detail was handpicked by my mother, every inch of this place a reminder of what my parents built.
The sound of chips clicking, cards flipping, and low murmurs of gamblers hoping for a miracle fill my ears.
Some will leave with full pockets, but most won’t.
Either way, the house wins.
I win .
Kota walks beside me, quiet but alert, his eyes scanning the main floor, and always a step ahead.
He doesn’t talk much when we’re out here, he doesn’t need to.
Anyone stupid enough to start shit won’t make it past the front doors.
And if they do, they sure as hell won’t make it far.
We head up the stairs, my hand skimming the marble railing, while I glance down at the floor below.
The usual crowd is here—men glued to their cards, women draped over their arms, drinks spilling, hands shaking over stacks of chips, chasing luck.
The smart ones know luck has nothing to do with it.
At the top, two of my men stand stationed outside my office, their backs straightening the second they see me.
They don’t speak or move, just stand at attention like they should.
I don’t pay them to slack off or look useless, and they know better than to test me.
Then the phone rings .
Kota pulls it from his pocket, handing it over like he already knows I won’t like what’s on the other end.
I take it, barely glancing at the screen.
“Tell me this isn’t more bullshit. ”
Kota exhales a short laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
“When’s it ever not?”
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
I sigh, pressing the phone to my ear as I push through the door to my office.
“What?” I bark, already annoyed.
I don’t wait for an answer before heading straight for the bar cart, the door clicking shut behind me.
I grab a lowball glass, my fingers curling around its cool weight as I pour a generous amount of whiskey.
The smoky and rich scent hits me before I take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in my chest as I turn toward the massive windows overlooking the casino floor.
The scene below is full of life for a Friday night.
Cards flipping, dice rolling, drinks being poured.
A man at the blackjack table grips his last few chips like they’re his lifeline, while across the room, a woman leans in close to a guy who doesn’t realize he’s already lost.
Don Antonio’s voice crackles through the phone, but I barely hear him.
My focus stays on the view in front of me rather than whatever he’s going on about.
Then I hear it.
Elli Enterprises.
His employee.
The Commission.
My grip tightens around the glass, the tension locking my jaw.
A temp is digging into Commission business .
I set the glass down before I shatter it in my hands.
The rage comes fast, curling hot in my chest, and simmering inside me.
“Rat bastards.” The words rip out of me, filled with fury.
“Who the fuck has the balls to try and incriminate us?”
Antonio doesn’t react to my outburst.
His voice stays even and unbothered.
It only pisses me off more.
“Can you come to Chicago, Alessandro?”
My fingers twitch at the name.
Alessandro.
Only my mother still calls me that, and only when she’s pissed about something.
Antonio keeps talking, mentioning Sebastiano and saying he’ll explain the rest in person.
He’s careful not to say too much over the phone, which is smart.
If someone’s tracking my moves, they could be listening.
I throw back the rest of the whiskey, the fire in my chest no longer just from the alcohol.
“I’ll be there Monday,” I finally say.
“Better to catch’em in the act, right in the office.”
The call ends.
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face, forcing the anger to settle.
It doesn’t.
Not really.
But I need a clear head for this.
When I turn, Kota’s already by the door, waiting, his expression unreadable.
A sinister smile tugs at my lips.
“Time to go meet my stalker.”