Chapter 18 #2
My footsteps echo in the empty space, announcing my presence to those who wait ahead. The air inside is stale, carrying the scent of damp concrete and rusted metal. Water drips somewhere in the distance, a steady percussion that marks time in this forgotten place.
This building has seen things that would haunt ordinary men’s dreams—blood spilled, screams swallowed by thick walls, secrets buried in concrete.
I follow the corridor, each step deliberate, unhurried. There’s no need to rush toward what’s inevitable. The flickering lights cast my shadow against the wall, elongated and distorted, a warped reflection of the darkness I carry within.
At the end of the hallway stands another door, the one I need. The first thing that hits me when I open it is the smell. Fear, sweat, blood, and the acrid scent of a man who knows he’s going to die.
The room beyond is sparsely furnished; concrete floor, drain in the center, single overhead light casting harsh shadows that hide nothing.
In the middle sits a chair, and bound to that chair is a man, the one Raven told me about. His head hangs forward, chin resting on his chest in either exhaustion or defeat. At the sound of the door, he looks up, and I see the moment recognition dawns in his eyes.
Fear blooms there, raw and primal, as he takes in my face, my eyepatch, the calculated emptiness of my expression.
“There you are,” Kayla chirps from behind him. Her red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, surgical gloves already covering her hands. She’s the best at extraction—of information, of confessions, of teeth if necessary.
“Has he said anything useful?” I ask, not taking my eyes off our guest.
“He swears he had nothing to do with the explosion last year,” Kayla answers, her voice almost bored. “Or the small one from last weekend.”
I nod, moving closer to the chair. The captive tries to shrink away, the chains binding him rattling with his futile effort. I reach down, grasping his trembling wrist and turning it to reveal what I already know is there—a small black circle tattooed on the inside of his wrist.
“You know who I am,” I state, not a question but a confirmation.
He nods, a whimper escaping his cracked lips.
“Anything you want to tell me before I let Kayla continue her fun?”
His eyes dart frantically around the room, seeking mercy where there is none. “P-please,” he whispers, the word barely audible. “It has nothing to do w-with you, M-Matteo.”
Kayla hums as she removes her gloves and uses some pliers to clean her long, talon-like nails.
“Enlighten me,” I bark.
The man stutters his way through an explanation about the tattoo being a symbol of revenge that’s used and recognized all over the world. While he talks, I process the information.
Didn’t Joey say something similar? Well, he said it was just a symbol, claiming he had no idea about the origin. And according to his girlfriend, she just wanted them to get the couple tattoo because of what it signifies. Wholeness, eternity, and infinity.
It’s possible I’m going about this all wrong and that the tattoo and symbol itself isn’t what’s important. But without it, I’m looking for… well, let’s just say that even a needle in a haystack would be easier. I don’t even know if I’m looking for a needle at this point. Fuck.
Looking at Kayla, I give her a slight nod. “Find out what you can,” I command.
Her hand moves to the tray of tools beside her, fingers hovering over the arrangement of metal that gleams under the harsh light.
The captive begins to sob, broken prayers spilling from his lips as I turn toward the door. I pause on the threshold, looking back at him one last time. Our eyes meet across the room—his wide with terror, mine cold with purpose.
“You know how people say it’s not personal, just business?” When he nods, I smile widely. “This is personal, motherfucker. Very personal. And not just to me. Kayla doesn’t like you, and that’s bad news for you.”
Kayla giggles, the sound innocent and terrifying all at once. “Oh, I really don’t,” she agrees, selecting a thin blade from her collection. “You shouldn’t have lied to me earlier.”
I leave them to their work, closing the door on the man’s first real scream. The sound follows me down the corridor, bouncing off concrete walls before fading into background noise.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Vito: Perimeter secure. No unexpected visitors.
Good. The last thing I need is complications tonight. This place isn’t on any official property records tied to the Russos. It’s a ghost, like so many of our operations—existing in plain sight but invisible to those who don’t know where to look.
I find myself in a small office adjacent to the main space, a room with actual furniture and working heat. The desk is metal, bolted to the floor. The chair behind it creaks when I sit, leather worn from years of use.
Pulling out my lighter, I flick it open, closed, open again. The flame dances, hypnotic in its simplicity. Fire doesn’t lie. It doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is—destructive, cleansing, final.
Another scream echoes through the walls, muffled but distinct. Kayla’s good at her job. She knows exactly how much pain to inflict to keep someone conscious, coherent enough to answer questions.
I should feel something about this. Guilt, maybe, or at least hesitation. But all I feel is impatience. I need answers, and this man might have them. If he doesn’t, he’s wasting my time, and that’s unforgivable.
My mind drifts to Raven, to the sight of her coming undone on her bed. The contrast between that moment and this one should be jarring, but it isn’t. Both are about control, about power. Both are about getting what I want.
The difference is that with her, I want to give as much as I take. The thought catches me off guard, making my fingers still on the lighter. Since when do I care about giving anyone anything?
I slam the lighter shut, shoving it back in my pocket. This is exactly why mixing business and pleasure is dangerous. It makes you soft, makes you question yourself at moments when clarity is essential.
Ah, fuck. Speaking of soft… didn’t I promise my Little Thief that I wouldn’t kill that useless fucker who’s screaming even louder now? Hmm, I mean, I’ve technically kept my promise if Kayla kills him.
Even as I think that, I know I’m going to stop her. I have to. I don’t want Raven to feel bad for that man’s death.
With a heavy sigh, I make my way back into the room. When I enter, Kayla has his mouth wedged open and swinging the pliers in her hands in front of his eyes like she’s trying to hypnotize him before extracting teeth.
“Remove that so he can talk,” I demand, pointing at the clamp or whatever the fuck it’s called. The thing in his mouth forcing his jaw open.
She pouts but does as I say. “You’re out of luck,” I say to the man. I begin circling him while I remove my suit jacket and roll up the sleeves on my button-up shirt. “You see, I made a promise to keep you alive.”
“Anything else?” Kayla asks. When I look over at her she’s leaning against the wall. I can see the curiosity burning in her eyes, but she’s smart enough not to let our captive know that I’m changing the plans at the eleventh hour.
“Free him,” I demand, ignoring the slight stutter in her inhale.
Once the man’s free, he slumps back in the chair which is the only thing keeping him from collapsing. On second thought, maybe it would have been kinder to keep him restrained.
“Now,” I continue as I get him some water from the cart with Kayla’s favorite instruments. “Tell me about that tattoo of yours.”
The man breaks down, and loud gut-wrenching sobs leave him. It’s fucking embarrassing to watch.
“I-I don’t k-know,” he hiccups. “It’s j-just a tattoo, man.”
No matter how many times I ask the same question or rephrase it, his story doesn’t change. His version is pretty much the same as Joey’s.
Once I feel certain we’re not going to get more from him, I get my jacket and turn to leave, slamming the door closed behind me. But I only manage four steps before Kayla calls my name.
“Hey, Matteo. Wait up.”
“What is it?” I slow my gait enough that she easily catches up.
When she reaches me, she places her hand on my elbow to stop me. “I said wait.”
I immediately shrug her hand off. “Don’t touch me,” I bite out.
Not only would it look bad to have other women touch me when I’m supposed to be with Raven. I don’t want anyone else’s hands on me. It feels disrespectful and wrong. Especially not when I just promised my Little Thief that she’s the only one I let touch me.
Kayla holds her hands up in surrender. “How’s the girlfriend situation?” she asks.
I narrow my eye as I take her in. “Why do you ask?”
“I like her,” she clarifies, sweat beading on her forehead now. “She has great energy, and she’s fun to be around.”
At first, I asked Kayla to pose as a bartender at the Leone Room to keep an eye on Raven for me. But the more I’ve observed the women, the more I’ve noticed they seem to have genuine fun together.
“She’s not for you,” I remind Kayla, whose type is everything Raven embodies. “But things are great.”
Throwing her head back, she lets out a loud laugh that echoes off the walls. “Jesus, Matteo. Do you think I have a death wish? I’m not touching your fake girlfriend with a ten-foot pole.”
I go to leave, but she stops me again. This time by moving around me to block my path instead of touching me. “Kayla,” I growl. “Get out of my way.”
“No, wait. There’s more I have to say,” she insists.
“Spit it out then.” I know I’m being short with her, but this is starting to get to me. I’m chasing fucking ghosts here.
“I think you’re wrong about the tattoo,” she rushes out, the only indicator she’s nervous about bringing that up.
“Oh?”
She nods. “How many times have you looked at people’s tattoos until now?” When she pauses, I know she expects me to reply, but I just shrug. “I’m worried we’re only seeing it because we’re looking for it.”
I get what she’s trying to say, and a part of me is starting to agree. There’s no way of knowing how many people have that specific tattoo, or when they got it. The one on this guy isn’t new, but I can’t tell if it’s over a year old.
We both freeze when there’s a loud clang. As one, we turn and run back to the room where the guy’s tied… wait a second. He’s not tied up. I fucking… fuck.
I pull out my gun before throwing open the door, but I shouldn’t have bothered. The man hasn’t armed himself, he’s fucking slit his own throat. And now he’s laying in a pool of his own blood.
Kayla kicks the knife out of his outstretched hand before checking his pulse. “Dead,” she announces grimly. “The coward killed himself.”