ALESSIO #3
I deal the first two cards, forcing my expression to stay polite and composed.
"Let's play." Dealing two cards to him and two to myself.
"We're going to play a little blackjack.
My rules." I explain them slowly, almost politely.
"I ask a question. You answer truthfully and completely.
If I think you're lying, stalling, or holding back…
I add a card to your hand. You try to stay under twenty-one.
When you bust…" I gesture to the chair. "One nail at a random location will nail you, no pun intended. No mercy. No second chances."
Juan laughs, a shaky, nervous sound. "A fucking nail? You're out of your goddamn mind, man—"
I don't react. I simply deal the first hand, calm as ever.
He has no idea how many men have said those exact words to me before him.
In the end, they all talk. Especially once the nails start going in—thighs, ass, balls—and they don't retract.
They stay embedded. The longest hold-out I ever had lasted eleven hours.
By the end, the poor bastard looked like a fucking fakir.
"First question," I keep my voice even and polite, even though I want to rip him apart piece by piece. "Who ordered the shipment of women moving through the Reapers tonight?"
He scoffs. "You don't know who you're fucking with, gringo. Los Hijos del Desierto will burn you and every Reaper piece of shit to the ground."
I let the threat hang in the air for a moment, then slowly flip another card faceup onto his hand.
"Oh, look," I murmur. "The Queen of Hearts. How poetic. That's ten."
"Didn't you hear me, asshole?" Juan spits, fear starting to crack through his bravado. "The cartel will—"
I sigh, almost bored. "See, this is where you're wrong." I meet his eyes, letting him see the void behind mine. "I don't give a flying fuck about the Black Canyon Reapers. Your people can annihilate them for all I care. You'd actually be doing me a favor."
The wariness in his eyes shifts into something closer to real fear. He's finally realizing I'm not just another MC grunt. "Who the fuck are you?"
I smirk, slow and cold. "My bad. I forgot to introduce myself. Where are my manners?"
Rossi steps forward from the wall and does the honors. "You're talking to Alessio Vitali. One of the heads of the Las Vegas Cosa Nostra."
Juan goes very still, the color draining from his face as the name sinks in. I lean forward, dropping my voice to something almost intimate. "And you made the mistake of putting your hands on my woman tonight."
The temperature in the room seems to drop.
"Now," I continue dealing the next card with deliberate care, "let's try that question again. Who ordered the shipment of women moving through the Reapers tonight?"
He stares at me defiantly, and I sigh. I add another card faceup without comment. He stares at his hand, breathing faster now.
On the fourth card, he busts.
Thwack.
The first nail fires, straight into the meat of his right thigh. Juan screams, jerking violently against the restraints, eyes wide with shock and pain.
I don't flinch. I simply deal the next hand. "Are you ready now? Who ordered the shipment?"
Sweat pours down his face. "I… I can't… You don't understand who you're fucking with—"
I add two more cards.
Thwack.
Second nail, this one into his left shoulder. Another guttural scream tears out of him. I keep up my faked friendly demeanor. "Every time you waste my time, another nail goes in. And they don't come out. Not until I say so."
Juan is shaking, his eyes darting wildly between me and the chair.
"Los Hijos del Desierto…" he gasps. "They're the ones coordinating with Razor and Flea."
He's not telling me anything I don't already know. I add another card.
Thwack.
Third nail, this one into the side of his ribs. He howls as his body convulses.
I wait, giving him a moment to compose himself again. Sweat trickles down his face in rivulets. His eyes stare at me hatefully, promising death. I've seen this too many times to care. He is in no position to threaten me or try to bargain his way out of this, and he knows it.
I scroll through my phone longer than necessary, finding the images of the pictures I took earlier, bringing up Rachel's photo. "Do you know her?"
He tries to resist looking at my phone. My hand reaches for the deck of cards, and his eyes fly to the screen. "Some puta…"
He starts, and I tap the button underneath the table with my foot, the one that activates the nail gun.
"Her name is Rachel. She was taken four years ago. Her name was in your records. What do you know?"
By the time the sixth nail fires, Juan is sobbing, broken, and finally talking. The shipment is real, fifteen girls, leaving tonight. But when I press him on Rachel, he just shakes his head, tears and snot running down his face.
"They all look the same to me, I swear…"
I let another nail loose anyway. Even though I know he's telling the truth this time.
On some level, I can almost understand his numbness.
Almost. I've killed enough men that I've lost count of most of their names.
Their faces, though… those stay with me.
Not with guilt. Not with remorse. Just there, quiet ghosts in the back of my mind.
But this… this casual indifference to the girls, to the pretty ones like Rachel, like Beccs… that's a different level of monstrosity. One even I find repulsive.
I stare down at him as he sits bleeding and shaking in the chair, and I feel nothing but cold contempt. He has nothing left to give. I stand up slowly, straightening my cuffs as blood pools beneath the chair.
Rossi steps forward.
"Keep him breathing," I order quietly. "I may need him again."
As I walk toward the elevator, my mind is spinning with the next moves. Beccs is waiting upstairs, and I don’t have long to decide. How much of this nightmare am I going to lay at her feet?