I lean down until we are eye to eye. “But I’m not most men, Dante. I’m a man of my word.”
He says nothing.
“I assume you know who I am.”
He swallows. “Seth Kincaid.”
I nod once.
“Then you know my family history too.”
“I know enough,” he says, trying to straighten like his name still means something. “I’m Dante Valero. You know what happens to me if I talk.”
“I do,” I say. “I just don’t care.”
He scoffs, then breaks into a cough that bends him forward, pain ripping through him.
I crouch in front of him. “What you don’t know is I’m about three weeks off my antipsychotic medication. I haven’t slept. My girlfriend is missing. And my patience is pretty fucking thin right now.”
I let the words sit.
“I need to find this manor. The faster you talk, the faster we wrap this shit up.”
Dante turns his head away. “Fuck you.”
Luke stirs closer.
“Stop asking, Seth.”
I stand and move behind Dante, pressing the lit cigarette to the back of his neck.
The reaction is immediate. His flesh hisses as his scream fractures halfway through as his breath fails him, body jerking against the restraints. I hold the cigarette there until the skin blisters and splits, until his legs kick uselessly and the chair rattles against the bolts.
Then I pull it away and take a slow drag.
“One of the side effects of me being unmedicated,” I say calmly, watching him shake, “is hallucinations. Impulsive behavior. Poor judgment.”
I flick ash onto the concrete.
“When that happens,” I continue, “I tend to get creative with my methods of torture.”
I step back into his line of sight and tap the edge of the table once.
I pick up the knife. “And actually, right now, I’m hallucinating my dead brother standing behind me, and he’s giving me ideas. None of them are quick or painless.”
Luke’s grin presses against the inside of my skull.
I drive the knife into the soft space just above his collarbone, pushing until I feel the blade scrape bone. Skin splits with a wet, tearing sound. Blood surges immediately, running down his chest.
Dante screams. The sound bounces off the walls.
His body jolts violently against the restraints, muscles spasming beneath the blood. His chest heaves, breath breaking into shallow, frantic bursts.
“FUCK,” he gasps, voice cracking. “Shit, if I tell you, they’ll kill me!”
The knife stays where it is, trembling faintly from the way his body shakes.
I press down just enough to remind him what comes next.
