Chapter Six
“I t’s Tuesday.” I barged into the Ferrantes’ basement two days later.
Achilles was in the middle of blowing out someone’s kneecap with a golf club. That someone had a burlap sack over their head and was tied to a chair.
Luca, Achilles’s oldest brother and the Camorra’s consigliere, leaned against a table in the darkened room, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up his elbows.
He stared at me unflinchingly, like people barging into their torture dungeon demanding shit was a daily occurrence.
Enzo, their younger brother, was also present. He was playing with a Swiss Army knife. I knew there was a sister in the mix too. The youngest child of the Ferrante family. Thankfully, I hadn’t met her.
The last thing I needed in my life was more of this fucking family.
The sound of bone cracking like a pistachio shell soaked my ears. It was followed by a scream, stifled by the burlap sack. Blood painted the tied man’s knee over his pants. Achilles swiveled my way, blasé.
He twisted his wrist and frowned at his Patek Philippe. “It’s twenty seconds past midnight.”
“As I said—Tuesday.” I surveyed my surroundings, deeming the place too unsanitary to remove my gloves. “Where’s my fucking spot at that dementia clinic?”
“We’re working on it.” Luca lit a cigarette, peering over the ledgers on his desk. As the oldest, he was also the least deranged of the three. Which didn’t say much.
I had studied the Ferrante family closely before we got into business. They depopulated the state of New York at a rapid speed and with much enthusiasm.
Most mobsters I knew sent their soldiers to do the killings, but Luca and Achilles had a particular taste for violence.
The Ferrantes were wolves in silk clothing. I immediately found myself drawn to their pack.
I appreciated that they were Camorra and not the Cosa Nostra. The organizational structure was less hierarchy-based, more horizontal, and therefore chose its leaders based on merit and cruelty.
Luca being the oldest son did not necessarily mean he was Vello’s natural heir to the throne. I had a feeling Vello was going to let his sons battle it out for the don’s title when he finally expired.
I was going to secure a front-row seat to that shit.
Luca, now thirty-two, was initiated into the Camorra when he was fourteen by taking the life of an enemy.
He did so in spectacular fashion, subjecting the man to a Viking eagle death. He’d broken his ribs and withdrawn his lungs from the chest cavity and watched as the man died slowly.
Four years later, Achilles was initiated on the promise he would up his brother’s ante.
As legend had it, when it was his turn to kill an enemy, he plucked out the heart from the man’s chest and ate it raw, still connected to its arteries and beating its last pulses.
One could only imagine what Enzo had to do to match his brothers’ brutality.
One day, when I was in less hurry and gave more fucks, I’d look into it.
“You’re taking too long.” I cracked my knuckles.
“Power is like a horse, Blackthorn. You need to rein it with restraint or you lose it altogether. We’re examining all angles. Speaking of.” Luca gestured to the handcuffed man with the sack on his head. “We just found out the whereabouts of one of your father’s killers.”
I peered at the faceless bastard, then glanced around me. It was the first time I paid attention to the setting—not hygiene—of the place since their housemaid, Imma, ushered me in.
I had noticed the upstairs door was padded and soundproofed. Now that I was inside, I understood why.
The exposed gray brick walls hid the worst torturing weapons on planet Earth. An iron maiden device, an armchair of inquiries, a hanging cage, a Judas cradle, and a fucking cranium crusher.
These assholes seemed to be having way too much fun killing people.
Some families played pickleball. The Ferrantes bonded over genital mutilation and skull crushing.
“Are you done with your My Little Pony TED talk?” I plopped down next to Enzo. “Good. Now, the clinic space is contingent on an important deal I need to execute.”
“And we’ll be sure to let you know when—” Luca started before another hair-raising shriek erupted from the burlap sack.
Achilles appeared to be gouging an internal organ out of the man’s gut with gusto.
Luca turned to his brother. “Christ, Achilles, would you kill him already? Mama taught you not to play with your food.”
“He’s not even a snack,” Achilles murmured around a lit cigarette, squinting. “He vomited out all the information before we even brought him to the basement. What kind of world do we live in that you don’t have to extort secrets from the enemy?”
“A dull one.” I drummed my gloved fingers over the table. “Is my father’s second killer local?”
Luca uncrossed his arms, readjusting his holster. “Lives upstate. This guy’s been providing him with a steady stream of underaged, undocumented sex workers.”
Another shriek of agony punctuated the damp, cold air, coming from the handcuffed victim.
Luca sighed. Pulling his gun out of his shoulder holster, he pointed it at the man and shot him square between the eyes through the sack. The screaming ceased at once.
Achilles’s sulky expression was comically boyish on his scarred, grotesque face. “Hey, I was having fun with that one.”
Luca spun and tucked his gun back into his holster. “We’ll get you another toy soon. I want to unburden myself of this fucker first.”
Achilles prowled our way and sank onto a seat in front of me, placing his gun on the table.
“Enzo,” he clipped out. “Upstairs.”
The youngest brother glanced between his siblings.
“Why?” He scowled. “I’m the enforcer now. I’m good for i—”
“I’m the underboss you report to, and I’m telling you to get the fuck out.” Luca snapped his ledger shut. “You can do it voluntarily or with a second asshole the shape of a bullet. Your call.”
“Dude, you pulling rank on me right now?” Enzo frothed. “This is bullshit. How am I supposed to learn the craft—”
“Do I look like fucking Georgetown?” Achilles turned to Luca, motioning toward his scarred face.
“No,” Luca said flatly.
Achilles turned to Enzo. “Bye, little shit.”
“ Vai a farti fottere !” Enzo stomped his way out in a cloud of juvenile fury. He was surprisingly golden retriever-ish for a mobster. Luca reminded me of a stray. Achilles of a rabies-infected coyote.
Finally, I had both Luca’s and Achilles’s attention. Somewhere in the back of my head, I realized conducting business with a dead body in the room wasn’t normal, but I concluded long ago I was anything but sane.
“Tell me where you’re at with our project.” I rapped my knuckles on the table.
“Which one?” Achilles asked. “Dementia lady or your father’s killers?”
“Hospital.”
My father’s murderers could wait. After Boyle, they knew I was coming for them. Living in fear was far worse than being dead. I learned that from experience.
“There’s no space at the trial.” Luca cracked his knuckles. “Not only is the program at full capacity, but the waiting list is a mile long. Since we can’t go around killing dozens of innocent people, we have to get creative. Paint a picture.”
“Elaborate, Dick-asso,” I ground out.
“We’ll hack the database software harboring the waiting list and put your candidate at the top of it,” Achilles explained.
“Luca has studied the criteria they’re looking for.
We found a neurologist to forge the desired test results—they’ll call him before offering your candidate a spot.
Then, we’ll relieve one actively treated patient of their life.
Your mysterious dementia patient will be their first call.
” The mobster loosened his shoulder holster, dumping it on the table between us.
Tattoos snaked up and down his forearms, his chest and neck, up to his jawline.
“So what’s the holdup?” I demanded.
“Research. We needed to look into each participating patient to see which one we should off.” He grabbed a bottle of Cutty Sark, pouring himself a glass.
“We have an IT guy on retainer, but we’ll see if accessing a government’s healthcare website and tampering with its records is above his pay grade.
I’m sure there’ll be more fees to come, so get your Bitcoin ready. ”
A knock sounded from the door.
“Come in,” Luca instructed.
A beefy, tan soldier walked into the basement. He wore a sharp suit and a determined expression. He handed Luca and Achilles papers.
“Bingo. The reports of the participants came in.” Luca tapped the documents with his cigarette. Both brothers scanned the papers silently.
“Susan Bosshardt owes four hundred K to Frankie Ricci.” Luca stroked his chin. “A local loan shark who pays us a cut. We can ask him for a favor. Less paper trail.”
“Christian Sainz had three heart attacks and a stroke this year alone,” Achilles countered. “He’s a better candidate, if he hasn’t died already by the time I finished this sentence.”
The brothers looked between them, then at me.
I stood up, buttoning my coat with one hand.
“I really don’t give a fuck which of these assholes gets wiped out. All I care is that by tomorrow morning, you call me with good news about this trial experiment. Am I clear?”
Achilles saluted me with his middle finger.
Luca poured himself another drink.
I walked out before the stench of the newly dead corpse of a dirty pimp seeped into my nose.