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My incision isn’t deep enough to fully penetrate Tony’s skin on the first pass, but it’s enough to make him a bloody mess as my blade reaches his belly button.
I reach forward, yanking the gag from his mouth with a bloody, gloved hand. Sweat rolls down his forehead, coating his dark buzz cut, and he sucks in a large gulp of air, on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Ready to tell me why the don sent you to rough up my wife?”
He nods, coughing, opening his mouth to speak. But all that comes out is an ear-piercing wail, and I stuff the gag back in his mouth, the muscle beneath my eye twitching. I’m tempted to push the gag back until he’s suffocating on it, unable to even breathe, but I close my eyes and try to calm myself with a few inhalations.
“I’m going to take the gag from your mouth one more time,” I say finally, exhaling slowly. “And the only sound I want to hear from you is the answer to my question. Got it?”
Nodding again, he starts groaning, clearly trying to speak. I tug the gag free, leaving one end of the cloth hooked inside his dry lips, just in case.
“Money,” he chokes out, voice catching from where his mouth is parched. “The don said he needed money, and you’d be more willing to dish it out if he threatened something you care about.”
My stomach churns, irritation growing into a quiet fury. “His own daughter?”
“He’s in trouble,” Tony grits, pinching his eyes shut and hissing when I press one finger against a broken rib. “Fuck me! I’m answering your questions.”
“Too well, I’m afraid.” I dig my palm into his ribs, shifting my weight until they fracture more, and he screams out. “It sounds rehearsed. Like Rafael knew I’d find you.”
Gasping through the pain, Tony thrashes on the table, straining against the straps keeping him down. “Of course, he knew! That’s why he used Vincent in the first place, to make it easier. Aren’t you fucking known for being able to find anyone?”
“I’m known for a lot of things,” I say, wrapping my fingers around my scalpel, grazing a red nipple with the sharp edge, not surprised to learn Vincent was a pawn. “Particularly, performing autopsies on the living.”
“Oh, Christ, no. Come on, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
I pause, the tip of the blade resting near the linear wound on his chest. “Why’d he push the kidnapping narrative?”
Tony shakes his head. “Not him, Carmen. She leaked it to the press immediately. Said you’d been fired or something, and were retaliating by taking her firstborn.”
Scoffing, I roll my eyes internally. Of course, she did. Jealous bitch.
“What else?”
Tony exhales, glancing around the room as he racks his brain. “He wants you dead. Even if you pay, he’ll kill you.”
Smirking, I try to feign surprise. As if I hadn’t known that’d be his plan the second I decided to defer from the mafia.
You don’t really leave this world. Either you’re in it until the day you die, or you live on the edge of insanity, aware that hits don’t expire. Waiting for them to come for you.
“Guess I’ll only be paying him a visit,” I tell Tony, unsure why I feel the need to when he won’t be able to relay the message. Dropping the scalpel to the table, I reach down to the floor, retrieve my circular saw, and adjust the scrub cap protecting my hair. “I’ll be sure to give him your regards.”
Later, after the echo from his screams has ceased its repetitive pounding in my brain, and I’ve cleaned the blood and other debris off the floor, I sever his heart from where it’s cocooned in his chest cavity, dropping it into a plastic biohazard bag along with his thumb, ring still attached.
After vacuum-sealing the contents, I shove it in a duffel bag and leave it by the outbuilding’s door, ready for Jonas to send to Boston.
* * *
“This is ridiculous.”
For a moment, my heart skips a beat, wondering if Elena’s seen the headline fronting Aplana’s Sunday paper: SOCIALITE STILL MISSING FROM BOSTON; PARENTS SAY SHE MAY BE IN DANGER.
I’m not entirely surprised to see it printed there; each time I decline one of Rafe’s messages, I can almost feel him growing more and more desperate, and desperate people will do whatever they have to in order to survive.
I can only imagine how much money my marriage to Elena hemorrhaged from his bank account. For a man whose funds were already dwindling, I’m sure he’s panicking without my backing.
Or maybe it’s the heart and finger I sent him, the message clear: I don’t really give a shit if his kingdom burns or not.
When I glance up, though, Elena’s bent over the garden at the back of the yard, hands on her hips, squinting down at the dirt.
