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And Mario Ricci clearly isn’t the one who’s going to break that rule.
“No, no, you misunderstood,” he babbles, beads of sweat dripping down his face.
One lands on the blade I’ve got at his throat, sullying its shine.
I don’t like that.
“Explain it to me,” Dante says patiently as I slice open the buttons holding Mario’s shirt closed over his bulging stomach, preparing to do what may be necessary given how truly unintelligent the man is proving to be.
I know human anatomy well, but there’s an excessive amount of visceral fat wrapped around Mario’s organs, pushing them out of place. I’m confident I can find the important ones anyway.
“Uh, it’s… it’s almost summer. We’re a… a seasonal business.”
Dante snorts, a signal that Mario needs motivation.
I carve a little divot into his flesh. A placeholder for where I estimate his engorged liver to be. It distracts Dante for a moment, as I expected it to. His eyes track the vibrant line of blood that snakes its way down the man’s stomach.
He smiles.
He does like bright things, and he’s always been partial to red.
Mario whimpers, and Dante’s eyes snap back up.
“What was that?” he asks, cocking his head again. “Pretty sure you’ll need to repeat it for me, Mario.”
Mario swallows, an audible sound that I don’t care for at all. “It’s just that… that we’re not busy enough to launder the full fifty you want right now,” he gasps out when I prod him again. “But, uh, but we can… we can do something for you, for sure. Less, maybe? Don’t worry, Mr. Channing. We’ll still help you out.”
“Helpusout?” Dante repeats in a warm voice, that deceptive little smile hovering around his mouth again.
Dante’s got an entirely different set of tools in his arsenal.
Well, maybe notentirelydifferent.
“Yeah, yeah, you know I want to help,” the idiot babbles eagerly, starting to nod vigorously but then stopping as his jowls connect with my blade.
He swallows again, his Adam’s apple catching my eye as it bobs. It’s a tender spot, right in the throat like that, and I mentally register it as another option if I need to carve into him more than I’ve already done.
“It’s just too risky to run fifty-k through right now,” he goes on in a strained voice. “Maybe, uh…” He gulps, then proves that yes, he really is that stupid. “Maybe I can do ten for you?”
Dante hums quietly to himself, probably giving Mario the false impression that he’s actually considering it.
He’s not.
I smile… on the inside. Then I remove another small divot of flesh, marking an entry point for Mario’s spleen. I would have stuck with the liver, but this way adds another entrancing line of blood to the pattern already decorating his stomach.
It’s a little gift for Dante’s enjoyment.
Mario makes a satisfyingly frantic sound of distress, which probably means this will be enough.
Then again, sometimes people can surprise you in the most unpleasant ways.
“Ten isn’t what you promised us,” Dante reminds him. “And when you agreed to do fifty, you knew full well how busy your casino usually is this time of year.” He gives the trembling man a pleasant smile. “So tell me, Mario, are you going to keep that promise? Are you going to clean fifty-k for us and make it work like you said… or should we plan on getting the money out of you some other way?”
On the one hand, the smooth tumble of intestines slipping out of a well-placed abdominal cut has a way of enlightening even the dimmest of bulbs. But on the other hand, evisceration is so often fatal that it’s a bit of a calculated risk.
And we do need the money laundered.
Of course, more than that, we need to enforce respect for the Reapers, so it’s a risk I’m willing to take if Mario doesn’t realize the error of his ways from Dante’s gentle nudging. Fifty thousand dollars is a significant amount for our organization, but respect is priceless.
