CHAPTER 20 THE TORTURE INTERROGATION #2
"Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the way that leaves you in a ditch."
Evelyn jerked against her own restraints, the van's floor rattling beneath her. "He doesn't know anything, Paul. This is between you and me."
Rizzo didn't even glance at her. "Shut her up."
A fist connected with Evelyn's ribs. She doubled over with a choked gasp. Owen's muscles locked, but the knife pressed deeper, a warning.
"Let's try again," Rizzo said, flipping the badge open with his thumb. "Special Agent Pryor. Funny—Vincent didn't mention the feds were this interested in our operations."
Owen kept his breathing even. "I'm not here officially."
"That so?" The blade traced down to his collarbone, not quite breaking skin. "Then why the hell are you here?"
The van hit a pothole, jostling them. Owen used the distraction to shift, testing the cords. Too tight. "Personal interest."
Rizzo laughed. "Bullshit." The knife's edge bit in, drawing a thin bead of blood. "You don't get to lie to me, fed. Not when I've got orders to make sure you never file a report."
Evelyn lifted her head, her voice raw. "He's telling the truth. He's not on the job."
Rizzo finally looked at her, his smirk cold. "Then he won't be missed."
Owen's stomach dropped. This wasn't just questioning—this was a cleanup. Rizzo wasn't here for answers. He was here to make sure no one walked out.
The van slowed, tires crunching gravel. Somewhere outside, the distant hum of the city faded. They were being taken somewhere quiet. Somewhere final.
Rizzo leaned in, his breath hot against Owen's ear. "Last chance, Pryor. Who sent you?"
Owen met his gaze. "Nobody."
The knife lifted. "Wrong answer."
The van doors opened.
Cold air rushed in as two figures yanked Owen out by his shoulders, the sudden light making him blink. Gravel dug into his knees as they forced him down. Rizzo stepped out behind him, rolling his sleeves up with slow precision.
"You know," Rizzo said, kicking Owen's legs wider apart, "I used to think feds were smart. All that training, all those resources." He crouched, grabbing Owen's hair to wrench his head back. "But you? You're just another idiot with a death wish."
The knife pressed against Owen's temple, just enough to dent skin. Owen clenched his jaw, refusing to flinch.
Evelyn thrashed as they dragged her out, one of the men cuffing her across the mouth when she shouted. Rizzo didn't spare her a glance. His focus was fixed on Owen, thumb smearing the blood from his throat.
"Here's how this ends," Rizzo murmured. "You tell me who else knows, and I make it quick. Or you keep playing hero, and I take my time."
Owen spat to the side, the blood in his mouth mixing with dirt. "Go to hell."
Rizzo sighed, standing. "Suit yourself."
A boot slammed into Owen's ribs. Pain exploded through his side, but he bit back the groan, rolling with the impact. Another kick came, then another—methodical, controlled. He tasted copper, his vision spotting.
Evelyn screamed his name, her voice breaking.
Rizzo paused, tilting his head. "You care about her?" He nodded to one of his men. "Hold her up."
The goon hauled Evelyn to her feet, gripping her chin to force her to watch. Rizzo grabbed Owen's collar, dragging him half-upright. "See, Pryor? This is what happens when you don't cooperate."
He backhanded Evelyn hard enough to snap her head sideways.
Owen snarled, lunging against his bonds—and this time, the cord gave just enough. Not free. But enough to move.
Rizzo grinned. "There it is." He wiped his knuckles on his pants. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Owen Pryor’s jaw tightened as Dario Vitale leaned forward, his polished loafers gleaming under the dim warehouse light.
The air smelled faintly of damp concrete and rust, a sharp contrast to Dario’s impeccable suit.
Marco Bruno stood to the side, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his presence a silent threat.
Vincent Moretti lingered in the shadows, his cigar’s tip glowing like a predator’s eye.
Dominic Moretti leaned against a steel beam, his posture casual but his gaze sharp.
Paul Rizzo hovered near Evelyn Crane, who was still upright but visibly shaken, her cheek bruised from the earlier blow.
“Let’s make this simple,” Dario said, his voice calm, almost conversational. “Tell us where Evelyn Crane’s locations are, and this ends. No more bruises, no more unpleasantness.”
Owen’s hands clenched behind his back, the cords digging into his wrists. He glanced at Evelyn, her defiance flickering despite her battered state. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly, though his pulse roared in his ears.
Dario raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re either lying or stupid, and I don’t think you’re stupid. Evelyn’s locations aren’t just hers—they’re leverage. And leverage is something I can’t afford to ignore.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Owen shot back, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Marco snorted, stepping forward. “Kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that.” He glanced at Dario. “Want me to loosen his tongue?”
Dario held up a hand, his gaze never leaving Owen. “No need for theatrics. Yet.” He took a step closer, his polished demeanor never faltering. “Let me put this in terms you’ll understand. Every second you refuse to cooperate, Evelyn pays the price. And trust me, I have no qualms about escalating.”
Owen’s stomach churned, but he kept his expression neutral. He couldn’t cave—not yet. “You think hurting her will make me talk? You’re wrong.”
Dominic pushed off the beam, his movements deliberate. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Pryor. One you can’t win.”
Paul stepped forward, his voice low but laced with menace. “You think you’re protecting her? You’re just prolonging the inevitable.”
Owen’s eyes flicked to Evelyn again. Her gaze met his, and for a moment, he saw the flicker of something—fear, determination, maybe both. He straightened, his voice firm. “I won’t reveal anything. Not to you. Not to anyone in this room.”
Dario sighed, a sound that was almost regretful. “Pity.” He turned to Marco, nodding once. “Take Evelyn.”
Marco moved swiftly, grabbing Evelyn’s arm. She struggled, but his grip was ironclad. Owen lunged forward, the cords finally giving way, but Dominic was on him in an instant, pinning him back with practiced ease.
“Let her go!” Owen snarled, his voice raw with desperation.
Dario tilted his head, studying Owen like a puzzle he was close to solving. “You care about her,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “Interesting. But care won’t save her. Only cooperation will.”
Evelyn spat at Marco, earning a harsh laugh from him. “Feisty,” he said, tightening his grip. “You sure you want to keep playing hero, Pryor? Because she’s the one who’s going to suffer for it.”
Owen’s thoughts snapped through options, but he forced himself to stay calm. He couldn’t give in—not while there was still a chance. “You’re wasting your time,” he repeated, his voice colder now. “You’ll never get what you want from me.”
Dario’s expression hardened, the veneer of civility slipping for the first time. “You’re mistaken,” he said, his tone icy. “I always get what I want.”
Vincent stepped into the light, his cigar trailing smoke. “Enough of this,” he said, his voice gravelly with authority. “If he won’t talk, we’ll make him regret it.”
Dominic tightened his grip on Owen, his breath hot against his ear. “Last chance, Pryor. Where are Evelyn’s locations?”
Owen met his gaze head-on, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his chest. “Go to hell.”
Dominic’s fist connected with Owen’s jaw, the impact sending stars across his vision. He staggered but stayed upright, his resolve unshaken. Evelyn cried out, struggling harder against Marco’s hold.
“Enough!” Dario barked, silencing the room. He stepped closer to Owen, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re making a mistake, Pryor. One you’ll regret.”
Owen spat blood, his eyes blazing. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Dario smiled, a cold, humorless expression. “You should be.”
The weight of the moment pressed down on Owen, but he held firm. He wouldn’t break—not yet. Not while there was still a chance to protect Evelyn.
Dominic Moretti tapped his fingers against the armrest of the leather chair, his gaze fixed on Owen Pryor.
The basement interrogation room smelled of bleach and old blood, the fluorescent light flickering overhead.
Dario stood against the far wall, arms crossed, watching.
Marco hovered near the door, his expression grim.
"You think you're protecting her," Dominic said, his voice calm, almost conversational. "That's noble. Stupid, but noble."
Owen's jaw tightened. His wrists were raw from the restraints, but he didn't flinch. "Evelyn doesn't know anything."
Dominic exhaled through his nose, slow, deliberate. Then he turned to Dario. "Authorize it."
Dario didn't move. "Vincent won't like it."
"Vincent isn't here," Dominic said. "And I'm not asking."
There was a beat of silence. Marco shifted, catching Dario's eye, but Dario only gave a fractional nod.
Paul Rizzo stepped forward, rolling up his sleeves. Owen's breath hitched—just once—before he schooled his expression.
"Enhanced interrogation," Dominic said, leaning back in his chair. "You've heard of it. Hurts more when you fight."
Paul pulled a slim blade from his pocket, testing the edge against his thumb. Owen’s pulse jumped in his throat, but he kept his voice steady. "You won’t get anything."
Dominic smiled. "We'll see."
Dario pushed off the wall, moving toward the table where a black case sat unopened. He flipped the latches, revealing a row of syringes. "This speeds things up."
Owen's fingers twitched against the cuffs. "You don't need to do this."
"We do," Dominic said. "You made sure of that."
Dario picked up a syringe, tapping the glass. "Truth serum. Old school, but effective."
Owen’s breath came faster now. "You think that’ll work on me?"
Dario gave him a look—not cruel, just assessing. "Everything works eventually."