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SEVERU
"We were supposed to kidnap her." The Albanian screams as Angelo tightens the clamp around his balls.
Blood is already pooled on the steel floor beneath where he sits tied to a metal chair.
"Her, not them?" I ask.
The would-be kidnapper looks at me, fear registering. Considering his predicament, it is odd that he's more afraid to answer me than deal with Angelo's methods of extracting information.
Then it hits me. "You were supposed to kidnap my fiancée." The man doesn't answer, but I don't need him too. He already has. "What about her sister, what were you supposed to do with her?"
He tries to shrug but his broken clavicle makes the move disjointed and causes his face to twist in a rictus of pain. "We were supposed to leave her, I guess."
"Why don't I believe you?" I ask, inexplicable fury roiling in my gut.
I don't let it show. I am not ruled by my emotions.
Angelo takes one of the man's fingers and slides it into the tool he uses to remove them. If he presses the handles together a strong, sharp blade will slide up and cut right through the flesh and bone.
"Don't. Please," the man begs. He's already lost two. "I am not lying. Our instructions were to let her go and only take the sister."
"And was that your plan?" Miceli asks from where he is leaning against the wall, looking bored.
The expression that crosses the Albanian's face is all the answer I need. His crew had no intention of letting Catalina go. They planned to take her too, probably to sell her.
New York Cosa Nostra stays out of human trafficking, but there are plenty of gangs and cartels that operate in and around the city who don't observe those limits. Including the Albanians – who don't just work with the Irish, but are in bed with fucking Russian bratva.
"What were you going to do with her before you sold her?" I ask in a deadly quiet voice.
"Nothing."
The sound of his finger being severed is followed by another scream and more blood spilling onto the floor. Angelo cauterizes the wound so the Albanian doesn't bleed out before we're ready for him to die.
The smell of burning flesh assaults my nostrils, but I don't react. That would be weak and a don never shows weakness.
"I don't believe you," I tell the now crying man and wait to see if he answers.
"We were going to take turns with her," he admits. "You got to break them before they're any use in a brothel."
Fuck that shit. The idea of the surprisingly fierce woman being touched by this piece of garbage and his buddies makes my vision go red with rage. I punch him in the face so hard, his head snaps back and we have to use smelling salts to wake him up again.
"Who hired you?" Angelo demands as soon as he wakes.
"I don't know," the man says. Again. His accent has gotten thicker the longer he is tortured. "It was anonymous through the web."
I know his crew makes money as hired muscle, usually for organizations that don't want a direct connection whatever is going down. Like kidnapping a don's fiancée.
We continue the interrogation but get nothing else of use out of him. The closer he gets to death, the more he slips into Albanian. Not one of the six languages I speak, but Miceli is familiar enough with it to shake his head, indicating nothing said is useful.
When we are done, I walk behind him, grab his head and twist until the bones of his neck crack, the break killing him.
We drop him into the pit under the floor and leave the box.
Back in my office, thirty-two floors above the box, Miceli asks me, "Is it true that Catalina killed one of the kidnappers?"
I nod. "Her uncle taught her how to shoot a gun."
"That's pretty badass. Maybe you should have picked the older sister," Miceli jokes.
