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I take a moment to study his bruised and battered body. His skin glistens from sweat in the fluorescent light, which makes his already pale complexion appear sickly. A nasty wound bleeds on his forehead, along with several other minor cuts and abrasions spread across his naked chest and legs. My men gave him a good beating.
“Hold that thought, buddy.” I slap the man’s cheek a few times like we’re old friends having a pleasant conversation. “I’ll be right back with you.”
He pulls his face from me but makes no further sound. Tossing him a smirk, I stand and turn back to the table.
“He was caught at the tower site downtown? What was he doing there?” I pick up apair of knives and examine them in the room’s light.
“Wouldn’t tell us,” Enzo answers. “The men found him in the parking garage.”
That information makes me pause, and I glance up. “The parking garage?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he have anything on him?”
Enzo shakes his head. “Nothing. No phone. No car keys. Not even a wallet.”
Downtown Miami’s newest high-rise luxury apartment building is only a few months away from completion. It’s the latest venture in our family’s expanding business portfolio, but it’s more than that to me. Seeing how the top floor penthouse will be my future home, the Triads sniffing around the construction site concerns me greatly.
But we aren’t the only ones dealing with the Triads. The Irish and Russians have also reported trouble, which is not good for business. But every time we get close to catching one, they slip through our fingers.
What the hell are the Triads playing at? What are they after? Their attacks appear random and without reason. I’ve never been a fan of the unknown, and it leaves me feeling unsettled. I’m tired of being left in the dark and want answers.
From my experience, torture is more about mental manipulation than physical pain. The right words can bring a man to his knees and break his willpower. But whether they reveal the information you want before succumbing to the Reaper depends entirely on the physical torture technique used.
I take the knives and a blowtorch and return to our guest. “I assume you’ve heard of the term ‘death by a thousand cuts’?”
The man reluctantly nods, eyeing what I hold with growing dread.
“The problem with the technique has always been that death came too quickly.” I flip the torch on. The fire is immediate as the roaring sound fills the quiet air. I stare into the heart of the flame and watch my demons dance with anticipation in the reflecting light. “The victims bleed out before saying anything of value.” I run the blade through the fire until the steel glows a bright red. “I learned that if you use a hot knife when you make your cuts, the wound cauterizes almost immediately. It’s all very—”
The man yells against his gag, interrupting me, and I immediately stab the burning hot knife in his thigh. The blade slides through his skin and muscle like soft butter, and the vomit-inducing smell of charred flesh fills the air. Our guest screams in agony, throwing his head back and thrashing against his bindings, trying hard to escape.
“It’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re talking. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” I tell him. “Now, listen closely because this part is important. If I twist that knife, it will nick your femoral artery, and you’ll bleed out and die within thirty seconds.”
The man’s breathing comes in desperate heaves of pain as he struggles to focus on me.
“So here’s how tonight is going to go.” I reach for a new blade and baptize it in the fire. “I ask you a question. You answer that question honestly, no cut. You don’t answer that question and, well...” I twirl the hot knife in the air. “You get the point, I’m sure.”
I motion with my hand. Enzo appears a moment later and pulls the gag free from our friend’s mouth. “We’ll start with an easy one. What’s your name?”
“Why don’t you ask your mother?” the Asian taunts with a bloodstained smile. “She was screaming it all last night.”
“And here I thought we had an understanding.”
I give him a moment to realize his mistake before I sweep the red-hot blade across his naked, pale chest, making a deep and long slice. Blood gushes from the wound as the skin bubbles and blisters from the heat.
“Go to hell, bastard!” he snaps, pain and anger fueling the words he spits at me. “You piece of shit asshole!”
I fake offense with a hand over my heart. “Language. Please.”
The man pulls at his bonds again. “I’ll kill you and every stupid Italian fucker in this room.”
“Cute.” I chuckle. “Your name.”
When he stays quiet, I slice his chest again.
“Chang! My name is Chang.”
