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When he finished with the restraints, Alessio leaned against the wall and folded his arms. Though his body appeared relaxed, his gaze was alert. Hyper-vigilant.
“How long do I have?” I asked him as Nino continued to rant.
“Five minutes,” Alessio said. “Maybe one or two more.”
I would need to be quick, then.
From another pocket I retrieved a switchblade. Flicked it open. “You took something from me four years ago. Something very valuable.”
Nino’s chest heaved as he struggled in his bindings. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only ever dealt with your father.”
Ice settled in my chest, a cold resolve to do what needed to be done. I felt no sympathy, no kindness for this piece of shit. “You tried to kill me in Belgium. Your men planted that car bomb.”
The reality began to sink into Nino’s coke-addled brain. I could see the surprise and guilt in his expression. Yet he still lied. “I don’t know anything about a bomb. Ma dai, why would I try to kill you?”
“Because you’re a stupid, greedy motherfucker, I assume. Did you think killing me would weaken my father? That you’d be able to take over some of his business?”
“Don Ravazzani is an ally, a friend. There is no animosity between us.”
I held the knife up to his cheek. “Cazzata. I want the truth, Nino. Tell me the truth and I’ll let you and your woman live. We’ll leave and you can go back to fucking her with that pathetic dick of yours. Just tell me why you did it.”
“I already told you—”
I swiped the blade across his cheek, causing him to hiss. A trail of red ran down the side of his face. “I don’t want to hear lies.” I moved the blade to the other side of his face. “The truth, or you’ll have a matching scar on this cheek.”
“You have to believe me.” He tried to edge away from the knife. “I am not responsible for what happened in Bruges.”
I cut his other cheek, deeper this time. The coppery scent of blood perfumed the air. “I never said it was in Bruges. Sloppy, Nino. Very sloppy.”
Shifting, I pointed the tip of the switchblade at his crotch. “Last chance, Nino. Or this finocchio is going to take your dick off.”
He began struggling in earnest now. “Don’t fucking touch me, you frocio!” Another slur, equally offensive.
I honestly didn’t want anything to do with Nino’s dick, but his repeated insults were making me think I should cut it off while he was still breathing.
I sliced the tops of each thigh, then I pressed the knife into his balls. He squeaked and writhed in the chair. “Tell me,” I shouted in his face. “Or I will take off your balls and shove them in your mouth.”
“Your father,” he panted. “We had a deal. He reneged.”
“When?”
“After the business with D’Agostino in Napoli. To rescue his wife.”
I nodded and eased the knife away from his balls. “Va bene. See? It is good to tell these things, no?”
He slumped in the chair, no doubt thinking this was over.
In a blink, I lunged and rammed the knife into his side. Nino sucked in a sharp breath, his body going stiff. Putting my mouth near his ear, I said, “I watched as someone I cared about blew up in front of my eyes. So now I’m going to make you scream, testa di cazzo.”
I jammed the blade deeper and he howled. Then I yanked it out of his flesh, only to shove it in again, slightly higher. Nino shouted to the ceiling, while blood dripped all over my hand.
“I’m going to poke so many holes in you,” I told him, “that you will bleed out slowly on the floor.”
“Please. I can give you money. Cars. Whatever you want.”
“I come from the most powerful family in Italia, and you think to buy me off?” I grabbed his hair, slammed his head back, and snarled, “I’m a fucking Ravazzani. And you’re about to learn what happens to the men who cross us.”
I went to work with the blade and the screams echoed off the walls. Then Nino was incapable of any coherent noise at all because I’d removed his tongue.
