FIFTEEN

Arturo

at the Docks, I found Marco in my office. The blinds were open, and the air inside was thick with smoke. He didn't glance up when I stepped inside. Instead, he dragged heavily on the cigarette that was dangled between his lips. Judging by the amount of smoke in the air, it wasn't his first, or even third, smoke. Which meant he was stressed.

"So did Florence say yes or no?" Marco asked distractedly. He knew me by my footfalls, as I knew his. I shifted my gaze out of the window where his eyes were also trained, but quickly grew bored of the view. Instead, I observed how he had reclined in the leather chair, kicking his legs up onto the windowsill and crossing them at the ankles.

"I haven't asked her yet," I told him quickly.

"I was half expecting you to walk in here ready to start planning." A wistful smile tugged at Marco's lips. He moved his legs off the ledge and turned in the chair to face me, taking another deep drag on the cigarette.

"I don't see why you've switched out cigars for those," I observed, eyeing the almost burnt-out stub with distaste.

"I told you, the woman I'm seeing thinks these are better for you."

"Not when you smoke six times as many."

Marco grinned. "She isn't the sharpest tool in the box."

Soon after that sentence ended, so too did our light conversation. I eased the door closed behind me and turned the lock. Marco closed the blinds.

"You know, the clock is ticking, Boss," Marco said uneasily.

"I know."

He kept his eyes trained on my expression for a moment longer, then they dropped and his whole body tensed.

"There's something you should see."

"Something?" I cocked a brow.

Marco's frown deepened and he nodded solemnly. "It came through a couple of hours ago from an unknown source." He turned the computer screen in my direction and hit enter on the keyboard.

I sighed heavily, dread already knotting my stomach. A video lit up the screen and I tried to imagine what it could possibly show. It wasn't difficult to work out. Even before the grainy image started playing, I had her blonde hair pictured in my mind, big brown eyes wide but slanted with determination.

The second the jumpy image began to move, crackly audio blasted out of the speakers causing my heart rate to spike. Marco met my gaze with a frown and quickly went to adjust the volume. We refocused on the screen.

At first, there was just smudgy darkness, and the sound of footsteps. The video jolted with someone's movement. Then came a low hum, like fluorescent light strips starting up. A faint glow illuminated a chair. All else was dark.

"It isn't pretty," Marco warned, and I shot him a silencing look. The trepidation in his voice was clear; he knew I could be fazed by very little, but the knowledge of who was in the video had made him cautious.

My eyes returned to the screen.

On the chair, a naked, slumped female body could just be deciphered. The curvature of her back made each kink in her spine stand out like spokes on a wheel. She was leaning forward, hands on the armrests, head lulled towards the ground. Her golden hair barely brushed the floor.

The person holding the camera lurched towards Cecelia quickly and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking her head up so that it snapped backwards. Her eyes flew open, and turned red for a moment from the light on the camera. She had a trail of congealed blood running from her nose. As the camera moved down, I could see that the blood had run between her breasts, all the way down the centre of her body.

She was wearing nothing. I shuddered at the thought of their hands on her, touching her. Feeling her. They would have, I didn't need to see it to know.

Cecelia thrashed her head around to escape the prying hands, but I could see that her movements were weak. The fury in her eyes burned through the screen.

"Bastard," she snarled, and I didn't disagree.

Bastards, the lot of them.

A sadistic chuckle ripped through the throat of the man behind the camera. He stroked Cecelia's hair soothingly while her panting breath echoed. It didn't take an analyst to note that his actions were anything but soothing; they were threatening.

I took a jolting step forward and wrapped my hands around the back of the office chair, my fingers curled so tightly that my knuckles began to ache. When I glanced up I saw Marco watching me.

"We will get her," I snapped.

"At what cost?"

I opened my mouth to hit Marco with a scathing remark but quickly closed it again as the video captured my attention. The closer the camera got, the clearer the damage to Cecelia's body became. There were deeply discoloured patches of skin and long gashes all over her that weeped thick blood. The worst part was her hands.

I felt my jaw clenching, hard, as the blurry image finally focused again. Cecelia's hands were also stained by blood. They had been nailed to the arms of the chair. I could see the protruding metal, the blood that dripped in a pool beneath the chair.

The video ended abruptly and the screen went black, but for a long time after that there was silence.

Anger rolled over me in waves so intense that I could have sworn steam was rising off my body.

Nobody got away with this.

I wouldn't let them.

"I will fucking kill them," I spat, releasing the chair from my grip with a shove. It tipped forward and then rocked back, landing with a slam.

"We need a plan," Marco said calmly.

"I will rip their bodies limb from limb until-"

"We need a plan," he repeated firmly.

I glanced up and met his gaze. Marco was my most trusted man, in many ways he was more like a brother. He was the only person who could speak to me with any sort of tone.

I rubbed my hands over my face, exhausted. The truth was, the Genovese Mafia had me over a barrel; they had Cecelia, who I wasn't willing to see die, and they wanted Florence, who I wasn't willing to lose. There was no way out of this predicament without a fight.

"We could try our friend for some more information," Marco suggested. By 'friend' he meant the Genovese captive two soldiers had brought in the other day. So far he had proven himself to be useless.

"If he didn't talk with the pliers out, he's not going to talk now." I walked over to the desk and poured myself a glass of whiskey. God knows I needed something to take the edge off.

"I don't know, Don, three days of Barney the Dinosaur can do things to a man," Marco shot me a wry grin.

Sometimes we found that our prisoners did not respond well to physical pain. Pulling their nails or teeth out with pliers could be little more than an irritation. Even the power tools would, on occasion, prove unsuccessful. But days of sleep deprivation could often get even the most loyal of our captives talking. Especially when they were kept awake by ten minute intervals of Barney the Dinosaur singing "I love you" at full volume.

Two seconds of it was enough to make me snap, so I could only imagine the psychological damage that days of it could induce.

"It's worth a shot," I sighed. "But this is his last chance. If he stays quiet, I'll bury the drill in his skull."

"Fine by me," Marco assented jovially. He started whistling our purple friend's theme tune as we exited the office but one glare from me was enough to silence him. "Lighten up, Boss," he chuckled.

We exited the small brick building containing offices and administrative rooms, walking out into the dull drizzle of the day. The sky was overcast, reflecting my dark mood, and somehow it always seemed to feel several degrees colder by the side of the river. The place where we conducted our interrogations and held captives was a large warehouse - one of the two we had on site. Florence had visited the other one when I had trained her to fire a gun and hit a place that was at least somewhere near a target. A small smile tugged my lips at the memory, but the reality of our current position wiped it away quickly.

Two of my armed guardsmen waved us through the doors. It was absolutely necessary that their shifts were carried out with complete concentration, meaning that silence was mandatory.

Inside, the building at first appeared to be entirely legitimate. It housed a large sailing boat that had fallen into disrepair a long time ago, complete with an array of tools that created the illusion it was being fixed up. Below and above, however, were two very different stories.

Above, a network of computers hooked up to various surveillance systems around the city provided us with 24 hour coverage of, well, everything. From the smallest crimes to the biggest heists, we saw it all. We monitored almost everything, save for a few blank areas we hadn't yet managed to access. All of this was made possible, of course, by our friends the NYPD. Or, should I say, a corrupt few of them who we had on our payroll. The rest could go to hell.

It was surprising the number of officials who could be turned by a wad of money waved their way. We had politicians, public figures, police officers - you name it. Not all of them could be swayed, of course. The majority were just as morally upstanding as they appeared to be in the public eye. But we had one or two here and there. It was enough.

Below ground were our captives. Sometimes we had none, sometimes we had three or four at a time.

Right now we had just one: Dante Luciano.

"How is he?" I asked Paulie, the guy currently tasked with watching our prisoner for a twelve hour shift.

"Not happy," Paulie smirked, pointing at the computer monitor. "Looks like Barney really is getting to him."

Marco and I both leaned closer and watched the screen for several seconds. Even on the grainy CCTV cameras, it wasn't hard to tell that sleep deprivation was taking its toll.

"You want to speak to him, Don?" Paulie held out a set of headphones with a microphone attached.

I took the headphones and slipped them on. At first, there was silence. The music had cut out, leaving a low, sadistic muttering coming from our prisoner. His eyes were wide as they rolled around the room, lips moving so fast he could have been possessed. Over the headphones it was impossible to decipher exactly what he was saying, but from the crazed look on his face I imagined it wasn't anything sane sounding.

The music abruptly came on again, blaring into the tiny room, and it was as if a jolt of electricity had been shot through the man. His body tensed and then began writhing against the restraints. I waited until the music cut out to speak.

"Dante," I tried to catch his attention with a flat, sharp tone. His eyes widened even more and span around wildly until they fixed on the camera. More unintelligible muttering and hissing followed. "Dante."

"No more Barney, no more Barney, no more Barney..." I finally caught the drift of some of his whispers.

"Dante," I said calmly, "do you want to hear Barney's song again?"

"NO!" Immediately he was thrashing against his restraints. If he didn't stop soon he was going to cause himself some serious damage.

"You don't want to hear it?"

"NO!" the man screamed, "please, no more!"

I smirked. "So you'd like us to stop playing it?"

"Yes, oh god, please..."

Marco caught my eye and raised a brow. He seemed to disapprove of torturing the man further - I could see the way his forehead creased slightly - but I was having too much fun. I reached forward for the control panel and pressed down a button.

"I love you, you love me..."

I didn't stop until the man's screams had become even louder than the music. Everybody has a breaking point. I had learnt over the years that finding the breaking point is an art; push too far, and they become useless, but find the sweet spot and you hit gold.

"Dante," I called over the intercom. Dante's head had lolled forward, and for a moment it seemed as if he had lost it. Marco, Paulie and I exchanged weary glances. "Dante," I insisted again. His head lifted up, ever so slightly. "If you don't want me to push that button again, you're going to help us."

I pulled the headphones off and handed them to Paulie.

"Open the doors," I commanded. He nodded and pushed a button, typing in a security code. I entered the prisoner's room but paused by the doorway, half-turning towards Marco. "Get the drill."

Our prisoner didn't even lift his head up when he heard us enter. He kept it hung low, staring at the ground, as he muttered incomprehensible nonsense. I leaned against the back wall of his cell and took a moment to assess just how useful he could be. We'd been holding him for a while now - longer than it usually took to break a man. He had precisely three fingernails left and was missing four teeth. He had a broken nose, and a black eye. Two fractured ribs, at a guess, but it could have been more, maybe some were even broken.

"I can make all of this go away, Dante," I said quietly. My voice was low and and soft as silk: tempting. When he didn't respond, I pressed him further. "Do you want that? Hmm?"

A low moan.

"I can make it happen," I promised. "All you have to do is talk to me."

With a great amount of effort Dante lifted his head. The dirt and blood and swelling that had warped his face made him almost unrecognisable. His eyes rolled in my direction.

"I have nothing to say to you," he rasped. When his mouth opened I could see the gaps that once held teeth.

Now those teeth were littering the floor of the cell. I crunched one under my shoe.

"You see, I think you have a lot to say to me."

"Go to hell," Dante spat, but his voice lacked conviction. His eyes were fixed on my foot slowly grinding away at the tooth.

"Tell us what their plan is."

"Fuck you."

I shrugged and scuffed my shoe along the floor, sending one of Dante's teeth skidding in his direction. It landed beneath his chair. "You have children, isn't that right, Mr Luciano?"

"You leave them the fuck out of this-"

"And a wife, too," I continued. "Maria, sí?"

"If you hurt her-"

"On the contrary," I interrupted, "we can help her, and you. We can get you away from this life - somewhere safe. We can protect you. All you have to do is talk to me, Mr Luciano. Is that really such a high price to pay?"

I pushed off the wall and paced slowly across the room. Dante's eyes followed me the whole way, occasionally flickering to my right where Marco was stood grasping the drill. When I reached the metal table behind which our prisoner was sat - or chained, more precisely - I placed my hands on the edge of it and leaned across.

"You must be in a lot of pain," I said almost sympathetically. Dante said nothing, but he didn't need to; the way his jaw clenched was enough to tip me off that I was right. I ticked my head back towards the cell door. "Just out there, we have a doctor. He can help you."

"You're lying," Dante rasped, shaking his head.

Behind me, I heard Marco's feet shifting, and the dull thwack of the drill landing in his palm. This was taking longer than we anticipated - longer than it should have.

My gaze narrowed significantly as I leaned further across the table. The tip of my nose was just an inch away from Dante's. He smelt like a dying man: blood and sweat and fear. The metallic tang was acrid as it burnt up my nose. I didn't fail to notice that Dante had stopped breathing, either.

"Maybe I am," I whispered. "But are you really going to take that risk? Put your wife and children's lives on the line by keeping quiet?"

I could see that I had planted a seed of doubt in his mind. I stepped back from the table and allowed it to germinate. His head shook, or quivered - an uncontrolled motion of shock that forced his lips to move as well. Sharp noises were expelled from them as he tried to work through his confusion, breathing rugged.

"Tell us how we can get Cecelia back," I demanded, losing patience. When I glanced behind me Marco shot me a look that told me to give up. He should have broken by now.

"Take them the girl," Dante wheezed. Panic had made his chest tighten; discomfort was written plainly across his bloodstained face.

"Florence is out of the question."

"Then Cecelia is dead."

"Not if you tell us where she is being kept," I pressed, voice coming out harder than I had anticipated. I felt my jaw tick with annoyance.

"Like I know," he scoffed.

"That is the last lie you are going to tell." I gestured behind me. "Marco."

The drill started up abruptly, its whining drone so persistent that it felt as though it was burying into my own skull.

A breathy whimper escaped Dante as he shrank away against his restraints. "Please don't," he begged when Marco stepped closer. "Please."

I held my hand up again and the drill stopped.

"Unless you want that thing to crack your skull open, you are going to tell us exactly where they are keeping Cecelia and exactly where their weak spots are." I dug a small notebook out of my pocket and threw it, along with a pen, onto the table. "Start writing."

Nine days, seven fingernails, four teeth, several beatings and one thousand repetitions of Barney the Dinosaur later, Dante Luciano cracked. And out of him poured all the Genovese secrets we had been hoping for. When all useful information had leaked out of his blubbering mouth, when he finally ran dry, I picked up the black notebook off the table and slipped it into my pocket.

"Thank you, Dante." I gave him a brief nod. "You have been endlessly helpful."

"Now what about my wife, my kids, poor Maria-"

I turned towards Marco and shrugged. "I am sure they will be happier without you." My hands outstretched, I wrapped my fingers around the base of the power tool. "Now say your prayers."

The drill started up.

Marco left the room as the grinding sound of metal against bone ate up the silence.

Dante Luciano had held out for nine days.

His screams lasted only nine seconds.