Page 109 of Thin Lives

Calisto stepped up to the discrete entrance of a rather shoddy building in a quiet part of New Jersey that he only knew as the Slaughterhouse. The name gave off the impression of some kind of meat factory, but in fact, was nothing of the sort.

Sure, there were hooks hanging from the ceiling.

Bloodstains on the floor.

A man good with knives …

But no one he knew would be willing to buy the kind of meat the Irish boss liked to have cut up in the place.

The man on the other side of the Slaughterhouse’s door barely acknowledged Calisto when he stepped inside. He wasn’t stupid enough, however, to think the man didn’t take inventory of him as soon as he came inside, gauging whether or not he was dangerous and needing to be disposed of.

Connor likely would have warned the man someone was coming.

“The boss?” Calisto asked the silent man, choosing not to elaborate in case Connor hadn’t explained who was in one of the many backrooms.

Hopefully shackled to a wall already.

“Furthest room on the second level,” the man replied, sounding bored. “Just follow the stairs and the hallway, you can’t miss the red door.”

Calisto gave a nod in thanks, but didn’t bother explaining to the man that this wasn’t his first time at the Slaughterhouse. Twice, he’d met Connor in this godforsaken building because this was where the Irish boss found his peace.

In splitting skin.

Cut muscles.

Blood dripping to the floor.

Gasping screams …

Calisto chose not to judge how other men in his business handled … well, their business, so to speak. Whether being the hands on type when it came to managing issues, or if it was a way to handle his stress, Calisto didn’t ask the Irish boss.

But the man liked to cut.

So, he’d made himself a place to do just that.

The Slaughterhouse.

Ignoring the chill running down his spine, Calisto made his way through the dark, damp-smelling building. It didn’t take him long at all to find the one of many red doors he was looking for. All of the rooms that were used for … reasons … were painted with red doors. It stopped men from entering without hesitating first, wondering if the reason they had been called to the Slaughterhouse was a good one, or the end of their road.

Mind games.

Connor loved those, apparently.

Calisto had figured out after a while that he still had a lot of learning left to do where being a boss was concerned. After spending the past few years pushing against the idea of becoming the Don of his family, he no longer had that option—not if he wanted to take back what should be rightfully his.

Pushing open the red door, the smell hit him first.

Wet. Warm. Musty.

Then he heard it—air hissing through teeth, choking sobs, and breaths catching on the exhale.

Pain.

That’s what he heard—pain.

Quietly, Calisto let the door click shut and took a spot in the corner. That was what Connor always asked for someone to do if they interrupted his time and work. He asked for people to wait until he was ready to chat, or he was finished because the victim was dead.

Whichever came first.