Chapter 12
Felix
Ipushed the door open to the back room of the butcher shop, letting the smell of blood and raw meat hit me.
This was always one of my favorite places to work. The smell, the mess, the way the red gleamed under the harsh lights—it was honest. Clean. No pretenses. I ran a hand along the counter, feeling the cold metal beneath my fingers, and let my eyes settle on the man tied to the chair.
He was small, scrappy, a courier I’d barely noticed until now. Now, every nervous twitch and shallow breath screamed guilt—or at least fear. Good.
“Who’s been stealing the money?” I asked, my voice low, measured. Let it linger. Let him stew in the silence.
Vincenzo and Emilio stood against the wall, saying nothing, but their eyes darted constantly between me and the courier.
The courier swallowed hard, his hands trembling where they were tied. “I—I don’t know! Maybe… maybe it was them!” He said, motioning towards my two friends.
I laughed out loud. The man couldn’t even lie properly. “Maybe it was them,” I repeated, amusement coating my voice.
I knew it wasn’t them. Not Vincenzo, not Emilio. The truth was staring me right in the face, hidden behind this courier’s panicked eyes.
I let the silence stretch, letting the weight of it press down on him. Every twitch, every stutter, every drop of sweat told me more than words ever could. “You think pointing fingers will save you?” I said slowly, voice low and dangerous. “It won’t. I always find the truth.”
The courier’s eyes widened, flicking to my friends. Vincenzo’s jaw tightened. Emilio’s eyes narrowed. His fear was spreading, subtle but undeniable.
“So, are you going to give me the information I’m looking for?” I asked, letting each word drip with quiet menace.
“No! I didn’t take anything! I swear!” The courier’s voice cracked, desperation bleeding through every syllable. His eyes darted wildly between Vincenzo and Emilio, as if sheer panic could shift the blame again.
“Shame.” I took the blade from my back pocket, the metal cold and precise, and began sawing at his left ear.
He screamed, a raw, high-pitched sound that made the tiles vibrate beneath us. The smell of blood hit me, mingling with the butcher shop’s familiar stench, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction at the fear coursing through him.
“Looks like you’ll be a modern day Van Gogh,” I said, ripping the flesh further and further away from his skull.
“No, please!” he screamed, the sound hoarse and ragged, echoing off the tiled walls. His hands flailed, but the ropes held tight.
I leaned in close, letting the cold edge of the blade press against the raw skin, savoring the way fear made him small. “You can scream all you want,” I said, “but the only thing that will stop me is the truth. Who took the money?”
“I don’t know his name,” the courier sobbed. “He sent a different guy every time.”
I tilted my head, studying him. His words were useless. Lies, half-truths, fear… all of it just noise. My patience wasn’t infinite, and I made sure he knew it.
“Different guy every time?” I repeated. I leaned closer, the knife still in my hand, the smell of blood thick in the air. “You expect me to believe that? That every single time, someone else just magically stole from me?”
He shook his head violently, sobbing harder. “I—I don’t know his name! Please! I swear, I only delivered the money!”
I let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Of course you don’t.” My eyes flicked to Vincenzo and Emilio, who rolled their eyes as if they were bored by the whole exchange.
I turned my gaze back to the courier, letting the knife hang loosely in my hand. “Well, if you don’t know anything else, I suppose we have to let you go.”
“R-really?” he said between sobs.
“No.”
Before he could process it, I pressed the blade against his ear and finished cutting, ripping it away cleanly. His scream tore through the butcher shop, raw and high-pitched, and the metallic tang of blood filled my nostrils.
“It’s a shame you never learned how to be honest.” I motioned to Vincenzo. “Can you help me with him?”
“Help… help with what?” the courier stammered, fear blazing in his eyes.
We didn’t respond. Instead, Vincenzo and I hauled him out of the chair and into the backroom. The courier’s struggles were weak as he was pulled across the floor, a trail of crimson marking his path.
The room was lined with meat hooks, glinting under the flickering fluorescent lights. Cold steel dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if anticipating what was about to happen. I let my eyes roam over them, letting the sight sink into the courier’s mind.
The courier’s eyes went wide, glancing at the hooks, at Vincenzo, at me, and I knew the lesson was finally sinking in. Fear was a tool in the cruel game I played.
I lifted him up and pressed the hook against his back, just enough to make him flinch. “You’ve run out of time,” I said softly, letting each word land like a hammer. “No more games.”
Before he could even stammer, I let go. The sudden release made him stumble forward, arms flailing uselessly, and the sharp edge of the hook pierced through his shoulder blade.
He screamed, high-pitched and raw, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. Blood spattered across the floor as he twisted, trying desperately to pull himself free. Every movement only drove the hook deeper, and I let him struggle, savoring the terror radiating off him.
He tried to speak, his lips trembling, voice cracking. “I—”
A wet cough cut him off, and a spray of blood hit the tile. His eyes widened in panic as he gagged, hacking violently, the taste of iron filling his mouth.
I lifted him by the rope, letting the weight of his body pull against the steel.
His arms flailed weakly, kicking at the floor, but the ropes and the hook held him tight.
Blood dripped steadily from the wound in his shoulder, dark and thick, splattering across the tiles and pooling beneath him.
The metallic scent filled the room, sharp and intoxicating.
Finally, his body sagged limply against the hook, eyes rolling back as darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. His chest heaved shallowly, blood still trickling from his mouth, and then, with a final shudder, he passed out.
“Only a matter of time until he’s dead,” Emilio said, breaking the silence.
I watched the courier hang there, chest rising and falling in short, ragged spasms. The blood darkened the tile beneath him, little black rivers spreading toward the drain. For a moment I just looked, as if I was studying a ledger and not a body.
“Yeah. We’ll get a clean up crew here,” I responded. “Let’s get anything he’s carrying. Ledger. Phones. Anything with names.”
Vincenzo walked over to the courier’s limp body and started going through his pockets. He hummed under his breath for a second, then glanced up with a half-amused expression.
“Maybe we should’ve done this before he was covered in blood,” he said, sarcastic but not unkind.
A corner of my mouth twitched. “Maybe. But then it wouldn’t be as memorable.”
For a moment, we were just three men in a butcher shop, sifting through what was left behind. Business as usual.
“Let’s finish up,” I said, turning toward the door. “We’ve still got work to do.”
And without another glance at the body, we stepped out into the night.