9. Enzo
Silently,I read from the file. Then, I run through the usual questions. I ask his name or if he has a nickname he prefers I address him by.
Like a moron, he struggles with the zip ties binding his wrists in place. My men have him seated on a chair, wrists cinched to the armrest, with a black sack over his head.
I shake the small pill canister near his ear. He jolts and nearly pisses himself. “Who are you? What do you want?” his voice trembles.
“What do I want?” My words are controlled. “I want... everything.”
With a nod of my head, one of the guards grabs his finger, ripping it back until the telltale crack hits the air.
An agonized cry rips from his chest. “Stop. Please. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Body writhing in desperation and fear, he’s overcome with sobs.
I smack him. “Where’s your dignity? For a man capable of such violence...such hate ...the least you can do is take a little bone break like a man.” I lean close to his ear, the smell of formaldehyde and cheap cologne ripe with his sweat. “We still have so many fingers to go.”
“No!” he begs at the top of his lungs. “You have the wrong man.”
I flip a page, the rustle of the paper loud. He shakes. I smile. “Oh, we have the right man. The pills were your weak point. But that was all greed, wasn’t it?” I hold one close to his lips. “Would you like one now?”
The shake of his head is adamant, and his lips form a hard, tight line.
I toss them at his feet. “What’s wrong? These magic pills cure every pain imaginable. At first. And what happens the next day? When you don’t take them?” His silence crawls along my skin, until I’m agitated enough to backhand him. “Answer me!”
“It g-gets w-worse,” he stammers out.
“It gets worse,” I repeat as my mouth curls up one side. Getting information will be easier now. Like pressing a button and getting water from a fountain. I breathe deeply, satisfied for the moment, and move on. “Now, let’s talk about”—I check the file for the name again—“Anya.” The best friend of Smoke’s bride.
He screams uncontrollably. “Help! Somebody...anybody! Help!”
I give him a minute to realize his screams are pointless—wasted energy. Then I continue, torturing him for the next hour before I rip off the bag covering his head.
His eyes are swollen, but not shut. And his face is a mass of blood and bruises. But I want to see his eyes when I say this. Especially considering that by tonight, he’ll never see through those eyes again.
“Look at me!” I snap.
Trembling, he lifts his head until our eyes lock. It’s clear he knows now I’m not Smoke. I sport a deadly grin. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Enzo. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
It’s there in an instant. That flash of fear. The tremors. Once again, my reputation precedes me. Satisfaction heats my blood in a way very few things do.
For a fraction of a second, Bella’s doe eyes and soft skin flash through my thoughts. I shove her into a closet in the farthest corner of my mind. She can’t be here now.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Please!”
“Shh,” I shush him like a child and straighten my cuff. “I have an engagement to attend to, or I’d be able to give you my full attention. But fear not. We’ll have more one-on-one time tomorrow.” I pull out a syringe.
Panicked, he foolishly struggles with the zip ties again. “What’s that?”
“Just something Smoke found in your little stash.” I carry on as I hold the needle up to the light. “I’ve been given every assurance that this little concoction will prolong every sensation.” Without warning, I drive it into his neck.
By this point, his freak-out is epic. I’d be freaking out, too, if I were him. His nightmare is only just beginning, and my imagination has so far to go.
“Tomorrow, we’ll talk more about my sister, Trinity. You remember Trinity, don’t you?” I don’t wait for him to lie. I keep going. “Four years,” I seethe through gritted teeth, my heart constricting tight. “We lost our sister for four years. Trinity couldn’t speak. Or sleep. Or eat, for the most part. Smoke heard nothing but her screams, every night, for four years.”
By now, he’s weeping uncontrollably. I take a step back to avoid the fresh puddle of urine seeping over to my shoes.
“When Trinity handed an image of the attacker to Smoke, he nearly shit a brick. What luck? He recognized you.” I chuckle. “We were idiots, thinking our father’s disappearance had anything to do with our sister’s attack. We should’ve been hunting a serial rapist. Especially since all this time, you’ve been right under our noses.”
“I’m sorry!” he wails. “I’ll do anything...” His words start to slur. A side effect of the medication, I’m told.
“Do? Oh, don’t worry. You don’t have to do a thing. We’ll do all the heavy lifting.”
On cue, they hoist the chair up by the legs, letting Mort dangle upside down like a pi?ata.
I motion to the man with the pliers, instructing him carefully. “Fingers. One knuckle at a time. Stretch it out as long as you can and give him enough water to keep him alive. Leave him like this until tomorrow.”
My stand-in smiles like the kindred psychopath he is. “Will do.”
I’m about to depart while Striker stands motionless, poised like a clueless statue. Seriously, what the hell?
I’ve just ripped open a festering wound of a human, and now I’m expected to open my own goddamn door?
I tilt my head and give a pointed cough. “Ahem.”
Striker stares past me and gestures. “Something fell out of his pocket, sir. I think it’s a photo.”
Huh? I pivot around to spot the photo lying too close to the urine stream for my liking. No way am I getting within ten feet of that mess.
With a mere glance, the photo is scooped into Striker’s hand, ready for my scrutiny.
In an instant, apathy makes way for white-hot rage. Liquid fire fills my veins as I free-fall to the center of hell.
I snap up the photo, my fingers trembling with rage as I study it.
My eyes lock on every contour, every line—etching each detail into my brain.
I knew the man I was interrogating had victims, plural. They always do. But seeing another photo laid bare in front of me is a wrecking ball to the gut.
Because it’s not just any victim I’m staring at in the photograph. It’s a girl. A mere child, barely fourteen or fifteen years old at most.
Her eyes, innocent and dark, seem to bore into my soul, pleading for justice that I’m not sure I can deliver.
Every strand of her hair, every delicate sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks, serves as a stark reminder of her youth, her vulnerability. They pave a path down her neck—and to one heart-shaped freckle.
My heart lurches as I stare.
It’s Kennedy.
MyKennedy.
Anger boils within me, mingling with a protectiveness I’m not sure I can control. I turn my head to the man dangling by a chain and clench my fists, ready to burn him alive.
I reach for the nearest weapon—a Taser—and strike him center-chest. “Where did you get this?”
He screams in pain, his body twisting, fighting the restraints as he writhes in pain, dangling in the air.
I turn up the dial and hit him again. “Where?”
He passes out.
Frowning, Striker grabs the device from my hands before I can set the dial to max. “Do not make me kill you,” I warn.
“You need him alive, sir,” he reminds me. “Let us work him over. Go on your vacation. You could use the break.”
I glare at Striker, then at the man dangling precariously close to death, and back at Striker.
Deflated, I suck in a breath. Emotionally charged makes for bad torture and even worse information extraction. Plus, I need to save my strength for Clive. Bankers are a goldmine of information. Torturing Clive needs to be a marathon, not a sprint.
I nod, mindless and numb, as I pocket the photo and exit the room. I can’t believe I’m even admitting this, but Striker is right.
Ironically, so is Father Malone. God actually does have a plan.
And it’s even more fucked-up than I thought.