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“Pick up your fucking chin,” I yell.
When he doesn’t, Diego, one of my men, pulls Kurt’s head back so he has no choice but to look at me.
“That’s more like it.” I circle him. “Now, Kurt, didn’t I tell you to stay away from my club?”
“Benny”—my name comes out in stutters—“please. I won’t come back. I promise.”
“Kurt, do you think touching women without permission is okay?”
“I … I didn’t … I didn’t touch her.”
“Are you calling my security team liars?” I nod toward Raul, the head of my security team. “He’s calling you a liar.”
Raul steps forward, ready to have some fun.
“No, no, no,” Kurt cries out. Spit flies from his mouth, and saliva drips down his chin. “I … I didn’t. You’re … not a liar.”
I break Kurt’s hand bones first.
He sobs, pleads, and apologizes.
It gives me a goddamn headache.
Raul smacks a piece of tape over his mouth.
Then, I relax against the wall and watch the free show.
Raul and Diego saw off Kurt’s hands.
It takes them a good forty minutes to complete the job.
I need to have them practice more.
Kurt slumps, half dead, in the chair when they finish.
I untie him and drop to one knee. “How’re you feelin’, Kurt?”
He gurgles in response.
“Ah, man. I’m sorry.” I pat his back. “You want me to let you go?”
He nods and gurgles more.
“If you can fight off my men, throw some handless punches before bleeding out, then, of course, you can go free.”
He slouches further, my words not motivating him.
I hate ungrateful pricks.
Here I am, throwing him a bone, and he denies me.
Luca, my cousin, laughs beside me. “I love Marchetti games, man.”
Raul steps forward. “Come on, Kurt. Box with me.” He fake boxes the air and laughs.
Kurt collapses on the floor.
I don’t check if he’s still breathing.
