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Ingram holds out his phone and says, “Send them in.”
After a minute, three courtesans enter the dungeon.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Courtney, go ahead,” says Kate.
One of the courtesans, now fully clothed and not bound in any way, walks up to me and punches me in the face. The room spins from the explosion of agony. It wasn’t even that hard a hit; my head was already pounding, this just fanned the flames.
“That’s for shooting Ingram,” she says.
Her next swing, however, lands like a professional fighter’s.
“And that’s for Colette.”
Spitting, she turns and leaves.
I recognize the next woman: Samara, the ex-wife of Franco Silvestri.
Not good.
She pulls from her pocket a small syringe, removes a cover from the needle and injects a clear fluid into my arm.
“For Franco,” she says.
I feel it almost immediately: a searing inferno that spreads through my body in seconds. My scream sounds distant at first, as if it’s from behind a wall in another room. It’s only after an eternity has seemed to go by that I realize the inhuman howl is coming out of my mouth at full volume. When I open my eyes, Samara still watches, and a very real fear grips me from within: that she might have a second syringe, the way Courtney punched me twice. However, Samara turns to leave.
“Paulina, your turn,” says Kate.
I’m still reeling from the pain when the third woman approaches holding a dinner knife.
“I was supposed to do this to Merwin Locke. Now I can’t, so I’ll do it to you.”
She makes a series of small cuts on my arm in neat lines. Blood runs from them, and for a second I almost blissfully pass out. Then a fresh hell ignites as Paulina pours something awful on the cuts, something that turns them into vents of volcanic flame. Once she’s finished with my left arm, she repeats the process on my right.
When she’s done, Ingram says, “And this is just day one.”
I grunt a dark laugh.
Kate’s skin goes white and she covers her mouth.
“Excuse me,” she says, following the courtesans out of the dungeon.
Ingram waits for her to leave before turning back to me.
“I don’t blame her for going. You look like shit. She’s never done something like this before. I have. I can stomach it for as long as I have to. The question is, Anton, how much can you handle?”
“I… won’t…”
Even I can barely hear my own voice. Each word tears at my vocal cords.
“…Confess. Never.”
Ingram gets a bottle of water and holds it to my lips. I don’t drink.
“Don’t make this difficult,” he says.
I still refuse.
