He looked serious. There was no grin on his face.
“Hey there, Cassidy,” he said.
How the hell did he know my real name?
I wanted to slam the door in his face and run, but this door wouldn’t stop him. I didn’t think anything could stop this man if he wanted something.
“Going to let me in, Cassidy, or are we doing this the hard way?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I was so fucking screwed.
6
Rafa
A Few Hours Earlier
The warehouse was pretty fucking bleak as I walked around the outer edge. I couldn’t hear a thing from the inside, though I knew it was probably packed with wise guys. I stopped outside the side door and knocked a quick pattern.
It opened a crack.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s fucking Rafa. Open up.”
The door moved open a bit more. The guy looking at me was Ryan something or other, one of Ernesto’s boys.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Vince isn’t around.”
“I know. He sent me. Open the fuck up.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Ernesto didn’t say anything about this.”
I stepped up to him, annoyed. “You’re going to move now, or I’m going to beat your ass. Then when you bitch and cry about it to your boss, I’ll beat your ass again. Move.”
He stared me down for half a second and then stepped aside.
I strode past him and into the abandoned building. The door shut behind me.
Up ahead, the hallway ended at a T-junction. I turned right and kept going. I could hear voices bouncing off the old metal walls as I got closer and closer to the action.
I pushed open a door at the end of the hall and stepped into a wide and deep room. It was lit with only a single bright spotlight dangling from the ceiling.
Sitting under that light was a pretty girl strapped to a chair. Standing around were a bunch of wise guys, men I recognized. Leaning against the back wall was Ernesto.
I ignored the girl. I walked over to him, and he nodded as I approached.
“I was wondering when you’d show.”
“Vince sent me.”
“No shit.”
“Is that her?”
He nodded. “That’s her.”
“She talk yet?”
“Not a fucking word.”
“How hard have you worked her?”
“Not hard. Giving her a little break now before Lonnie goes back to work.”
I shuddered but kept it off my face. Lonnie was the mafia’s torturer, more or less. He was a brutal fucking guy but looked like any other middle-aged dad. I glanced around the room and spotted him standing next to a little table where he had his instruments arrayed in neat lines. He was balding, pale, and thin, and he wore a long sleeve T-shirt tucked into khaki shorts and boat shoes. He looked like he just came from the fucking golf course.
I looked back to Ernesto. “What’s next?”
“Like I said, Lonnie gets to work. She’ll break eventually.”
Just then, Lonnie walked back over to the girl. The whole room went silent and somber, and I forced myself not to look away. That would be weakness, and everyone else would take note of it.
But I didn’t want to fucking watch this. Nobody wanted to watch it. Still, the least we could do was at least watch what we were doing to this poor fucking girl. She was my enemy, but I didn’t wish Lonnie on anybody, not fucking ever.
He started with a pair of pliers. He asked her a simple question, waited for her to answer, and then yanked out one of her fingernails. The woman screamed and struggled, but she didn’t say a single word.
That went on for both hands. Every single nail was torn off. Blood was dripping down the chair, and her face was drawn, pained, but she didn’t speak.
I was impressed. Not many people lasted that long. Lonnie was unflappable, though. He simply gave her a short rest before returning to work.
The mood in the room was grim. These were violent criminals, men who were used to killing and fighting, but watching this was something else. Lonnie returned to her with a contraption that looked like pliers, but each side was a razor sharp blade, like a cigar cutter.
He slid her pinky finger into the tool.
“What is your name?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
He cut off her finger at the first knuckle.
She screamed, and he waited patiently for her to finish. He slid the contraption onto her next knuckle.
“What is your name?” he asked again.
Again, no response.
Again, he cut off her finger to the next knuckle.
I clenched my jaw.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Dasha,” the girl said, sobbing. “My name is Dasha.”
“Good. It’s nice to meet you, Dasha.”
She spit at him. He wiped it off before sliding the contraption to the end of her pinky finger.