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“Please!” He makes a small bow with his hand, proud to show off his new toy.
In front of us, there is a tank approximately 2 meters high and one meter wide. The underboss presses a button on the monitor next to us and the chains that hold the body in a deliciously uncomfortable way hoist it out of the water. The rat struggles for air and I immediately feel a shiver of satisfaction run down my spine. It lasts a short time, just a flash, but violence is always the antidote to any poison I may take.
Tizziano abandons the button when the man's twisted body hovers above the water level and drops of blood immediately accumulate in each of his pores, as if desperate to free themselves from that place. My brother shows me the dashboard while the man continually pants in inaudible but labored screams.
Tizziano keeps an imperturbable half-smile on his face. His eyes are reflections of mine but filled with a different poison. Ifbrutality were a drink, Tizziano could toast it at breakfast. And that's why I came after him.
I knew that my brother was isolating himself from others because he was unable to contain what consumed him and, more than that, because he refused to recognize the reason for such consumption: revenge. Not for Sagrada, not for his Don, but for himself and for the woman who was abandoned unconscious near our gates.
What that means is something I'm not willing to question, not now. Right now, anything that feeds my brother's lunatic instincts is dear to me.
“What did you do to his vocal cords?” I ask, admiring how the chains become intricate, forcing the body to bend, gluing the wrists behind the back where they join the ankles by the force of the mechanized shackles.
“I took them off,” he replies without a hint of emotion, and I blink twice. Not out of surprise, but out of admiration for the surgical work he did.
It's obvious that the man is incapable of screaming, but I would have thought he had used some drug to paralyze his vocal cords, since although every inch of his skin is oozing with blood, none of the elaborate openings have visible dimensions. My brother acknowledges my awed expression with a nod before explaining.
“This button lowers the currents in the tank.” He points to a row of buttons, all the same color, on the panel next to the computer monitor, where coding letters dance in a rhythmic pattern. “This one—" he presses the button next to the first one he presented to me, and the body gives a jolt driven by the mechanical arm that controls the chains “— lifts. And this one,” he stops explaining and offers it to me, smiling, “do youremember those machines we used to spend hours trying to fish for stuffed animals when we were at school? It's almost the same thing.” Tizziano moves away, giving me space to approach the panel. “Try it. It's been a long time since we played together. You are always my guest.” The underboss opens his arms, indicating the space around us as if presenting me with the entrance to an amusement park where anything can happen.
“I always thought your favorite part were the sounds. From the screams, the breaking bones, the sizzle of burning flesh... In the end, you became a refined torturer,” I consider.
“I like variety, Don. We can play music with the next one, this one won't last much longer anyway. Despite my care in controlling the blood flow during torture, it is weaker than it appears. And damn, he looked pretty weak. A worm with legs. I'll choose a better one now. We can make his skin sing, if you're interested,” he says in a voice full of enthusiasm.
I don't think this is due to the torture method. Tizziano is content just to have company. Whatever dose of cruelty my brother has it is matched only by his exhibitionist side, he always liked to show off his art. Much to his chagrin, the things he enjoys doing most are not enjoyed by many people.
“Did you manage to get what you wanted from him?” I ask. “Before ripping out his vocal cords, of course.”
“I didn't want anything from him.” He shrugs, not understanding my concern. “He had already spilled everything he knew. He was just a scout; his job was to report the presence or absence of family men on the streets for which he was responsible.”
“If he was useless, why did you bring him here?”
“I told you, distraction. This type never fails. Give your favorite brother a vote of confidence.” He approaches andsqueezes my shoulder with his hand, in an almost childish gesture of fraternity, if his words weren't similar. “I'll lend you my toys, Don. And you know what's best?”
I don't answer, I just wait while he walks away to the door and completes it without turning towards me, his body a living image of relaxation.
“You don't even need to return it. Where I got this one from, there are many more.”
Brutality. Hostility. Vandalism. The three pillars of mass that Tizziano is made of infiltrate me like a blanket of stability, embracing each of my cells with kindness.
When I turn around and the poor devil in front of me realizes that now it's my turn to play, no matter how much his voice has been silenced, his soul screams and reverberates chaotic energy unlocking new levels of despair written on his bloody face.
***
When my feet step into the control room, now operating at the Sagrada headquarters, my mind works much less overloaded even though my body remains tense due to the set of deprivations to which it has been subjected: food, water, rest, and Gabriella.
Keeping my soul fed with the vivid memories of the hours I spent in Tizziano's tower, I cross the dark floor toward the wall of monitors where all the information I've accumulated rests. I stop in front of it just to confirm what I already know: nothing has changed in the hours I spent outside this room. If any new information had appeared, I would have been immediately informed by the electronic piece in my ear. Still, I give in to the urge to clench my hands into fists and let out a deep exhale that forces my nostrils to flare to allow air to pass through.
“Don!” Dario calls me and I turn my body slightly, looking back. “We are confirming three new possibilities. At any moment, one of them could appear on the screen,” he warns and anticipation spreads tentacles around each of my internal organs, while the seconds of waiting drag on.
I stare at the screens in front of me, waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Until new information pops up on the multimedia wall. I smile, because of all the information we could gather, this is the only one I really needed.
