Page 233 of Merciless Daddy

The belief came with pain attached. I held it anyway.

They led me from the bathroom into a corridor between archive shelves.

The facility was enormous. Rows of grey steel climbed toward a ceiling crossed by pipes and cable trays. White labels marked boxes with numbers instead of names. Cooling equipment hummed behind mesh cages. Small green lights blinked in ordered lines.

There were no windows.

No dust either.

Whatever this place was, it was well maintained. Obsessively so.

My footsteps disappeared into the machinery’s low drone. Armed men stood at every intersection. Some belonged to Gianni. A few looked Russian. None wore insignia.

I counted doors.

One behind the bathroom.

Two along the archive corridor.

A freight lift with a keyed control.

A wide loading door at the far end, too distant to reach before a rifle found my spine.

Then the steel security door.

It opened after three separate credentials. A card. A thumbprint. A six-digit code.

I watched the hand entering it.

Four. Seven. One. Nine.

The guard blocked the last two numbers with his shoulder.

Inside was a corporate suite built in the belly of the records facility. Glass partitions. Black carpet. Conference rooms. A small kitchen. Clean white walls that could have belonged to an investment firm in Manhattan.

A terminal sat in the center office. Gianni stood by the desk with a cup of espresso. He had changed suits since the SUV. Navy now. White shirt. Silver cuff links. He looked rested.

I hoped Sal tore the face from him.

“Better, cutie?” Gianni said as he looked me over.

“Go fuck yourself.”

His smile was small.

“Sit.”

I remained standing.

Two guards entered behind me.

They did not touch me. They did not have to.

Gianni placed his espresso on the desk.

“Your wrists are free,” he said. “There are no restraints. No marks on your face. The drug should be out of your system within the hour.”

“How thoughtful.”