ALESSIO
The Oven is the same as always, hot. Silent.
Impersonal. A perfect steel box designed to break the strongest spirit.
The Oven doesn't have to touch you. Just seeing it is enough.
Men have confessed to murders they didn't commit in an effort to keep those steel doors from closing behind them.
The open doors radiate heat, making the very air itself feel thick enough to choke on.
I stand in the doorway for a long moment, letting the temperature wash over me.
Luciana is waiting inside the room. Tied to the metal gurney in the center. Her wrists and ankles are secured. The red silk dress she wore earlier is damp with sweat. Her perfectly styled hair is starting to come undone. Even from here, I can see the fine tremor in her hands.
She's getting the picture.
I step inside and close the heavy door behind me.
The lock clicks. The temperature jumps another few degrees.
She flinches at the sound, her head craning despite the cool demeanor she showed before.
Her self-discipline is cracking, just like it does for every person faced with the terror of the Oven.
It's just us. Her and me. No audience. This conversation has been eighteen years in the making. It doesn't need witnesses. I walk slowly around the metal table she's tied to. Taking my time. Letting her feel my presence. The heat. The silence. The knowledge that nobody is coming to save her.
"You wouldn't," she spits with what's left of the last of her bravado. "You can't. I'm your mother."
I stop behind her. Lean down until my lips are close to her ear.
"Oh," I murmur coldly. "Now you remember."
She tries to turn her head. I don't let her. One hand rests lightly on her shoulder, holding her in place.
"To me…" I continue softly, "…you're just another source of information."
I walk around to face her. The heat is starting to work.
Beads of sweat run down her temples. Her makeup is beginning to smear.
The flawless mask she wore in the ballroom is disintegrating.
I take off my jacket, take off my cufflinks, and roll my sleeves up.
Not because I'm too hot, yet, but to make the difference between what I can do and her inability all the more prominent.
Slowly, I pull a chair to the rolling table, so we can be more eye to eye. I don't like staring down on her.
"Let's start with your connection to the Collector."
She stares at me. Calculating. Still trying to find the angle. The weakness. The way out.
"I met him eight years ago," she admits after a long silence.
I don't react. Silence is underrated. People rush to fill it. Liars especially. Sure enough, after another few seconds she clears her throat. "It was business."
"Business."
"Yes."
"What business?"
"He invested in charities."
I almost smile. "Try again."
Her jaw tightens. "He funded hospitals."
I reach behind me and press one of the controls mounted on the wall. The burners answer with a low metallic roar. The temperature climbs another few degrees.
Luciana's breath catches. "What are you doing?"
"I've always liked this room." I settle back in my chair. "No clocks. No phones. No interruptions. People become remarkably honest after twenty minutes."
"I already told you—"
"You lied."
"I didn't."
"The Collector doesn't donate to hospitals."
"He—"
"He burns them down when they stop paying."
Silence.
"So let's try something simpler."
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
"Why did he approach you?"
"I approached him."
That, at least, sounds believable. "And?"
"I wanted..." She hesitates. "I wanted a future."
I bark out a laugh. "A future?"
"My husband never loved me."
"No." I shake my head slowly. "But he raised another man's son as his own." Her eyes flick upward. "He pulled you out of a trailer park."
She says nothing.
"He gave you a home."
Nothing.
"He gave you his name."
Still nothing.
"And somehow you decided that wasn't enough."
A muscle jumps in her jaw. "You know nothing about our marriage."
"I know enough."
I let that hang before continuing. "You were sleeping with his bosses." Her eyes widen. "Who else?"
A slow smile curls across her lips. "Oh?" she purrs. "Looking for your daddy now?"
I chuckle. "I couldn't give less than a fuck who donated the DNA." And I don't. If she thinks she can bait me with hints of who my father is, she's in for a nasty surprise. "I already had a father." My voice stays flat. "Didn't need one then. Don't need one now."
She's staggered that her little bait-and-switch didn't work. "No?"
"I want names. I want to know who else is running your operation, and I want to know about the Collector."
For the first time, there is a visible shift in her body language. She too is afraid of the Collector. The woman who seems unshakable. I wonder what kind of leverage he has over her, or if it's simply her being afraid to die.
I turn the valve another quarter. The burner beneath the steel gurney hisses louder. Heat crawls through the metal. She shifts.
"Tell me about El Recaudador."
She hesitates, but the heat must be getting to her. "He showed up about eight years ago. Nobody knew where he'd come from." She licks her lips. "There are rumors."
"What rumors?"
"That he belonged to an Italian mafia family."
Seems like I know more about the man than she does. Still, I play her game. "Belonged?"
"It's rumored that someone destroyed his family. He wants revenge."
I study her face. "No real name?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing. He keeps his past buried."
"So how does a nobody become powerful enough to threaten me?"
"He found Javier Salazar."
"And?"
"He saw potential." She wipes sweat from her forehead with her shoulder. "The gang was called Los Hijos del Desierto. They were nothing then. Street dealers. Car thieves. A few smugglers trying to survive."
"And El Recaudador?"
"He saw an army." She laughs softly. "The men were fiercely loyal to Javier. He'd grown up with them. Bled with them."
"So he put him in charge."
"He made him the face," she agrees.
"Why?"
"Because no Mexican crew would answer to an Italian."
That earns a hint of a smile from me. "Smart."
"He is."
She shifts against the restraints. "Anyone trying to kill the leader of Los Hijos del Desierto would've gone after Javier."
"But the Collector was the one making the decisions."
"The brains stayed in the shadows," she agrees.
"Where does the Collector hide?"
"I don't know."
The answer comes too quickly. I tilt my head. "You expect me to believe you've worked with the man for almost a decade, and you don't know where he sleeps?"
"I don't."
"Where's his house?"
"I've never been there."
"Safe houses?"
"I don't know."
"Businesses?"
She shakes her head. "El Recaudador doesn't stay anywhere long enough to leave a trace."
"So where do I find him?"
A humorless laugh escapes her.
"If I knew that..." She meets my eyes. "Do you really think he'd still be alive?"
I have to give her that.
"He comes and goes whenever he pleases."
"Private jet?"
"Sometimes."
"Cargo ship?"
"Maybe."
"Mexico?"
She shrugs.
"Vegas."
Another shrug.
"For all I know..." she smiles bitterly, "the man sleeps on a goddamn airplane."
She leans back as far as the restraints allow. "That's why he's still alive. He never stays where you expect. He's always somewhere else before anyone realizes he was ever there."
I stare at her.
Waiting.
Nothing. No hesitation. No lie. Just... ignorance.
A slow disappointment settles in my chest. She really doesn't know. For all the years she'd spent convincing herself she stood beside the most dangerous man in the organization... she'd just been another asset. Useful and disposable.
I know more about Cesar than she does. Which means this...has been a waste of fucking time.
I try one more time. "So where did you fit?"
She smiles, almost proudly. "I had buyers.
I was still small-time then. Small online shit.
" Her smile widens. "I had recruiters finding runaways.
Girls from broken homes. Women desperate enough to believe promises of modeling jobs and waitressing contracts.
" She shrugs. "I knew how to make people disappear. "
"El Recaudador knew how to move them?" I add.
She nods. "He had the roads. The guns. The soldiers. The safe houses. I had the merchandise."
Silence settles between us. She says it so casually. Like she's discussing cattle. I feel my jaw tighten. "Merchandise."
She doesn't even flinch. "Merchandise."
I stare at her. "Women."
She shrugs.
"Children."
The word lands without emotion.
She repeats herself, as if it makes the biggest difference. "Merchandise."
My jaw tightens. I roll the gurney another foot closer to the flames. The steel groans. I can't stand the thought of the things this woman did. Least palatable of all is that she gave birth to me.
Luciana jerks, lifting her feet instinctively as the heat intensifies. "You wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't what?" I smirk. "Burn you? I'm not burning you. Not yet."
I move my hand. "Keep going."
She swallows a few times. Sweat streams down her temples, soaking the collar of her dress. But she hasn't screamed. Hasn't begged. Hasn't pissed herself. Yet. She's tougher than half the men who've lain on that table.
Unfortunately for her... I've always been more patient than they were.
"He expanded our reach from a few cities..." her lips curl into something almost nostalgic, "to half the continent."
"So you built the business. And he built the empire," I conclude.