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“No.”
“Good.”
I don’t need them hanging around with what I have in mind for this asshole. He’ll be easier to dispose of without police presence.
Riding the elevator down to the basement, anticipation buzzes beneath my fury. These are the moments when I enjoy unleashing the monster and letting it out to play.
When the elevator doors open, Caruso and Deno are waiting for us.
Beyond them is a room with a single fluorescent light overhead, and a drain set into the concrete floor.
Not many men walk out of this room alive. If they do, they’re usually missing body parts.
"I want an update on Katie," I say to Caruso.
"I’ll call Dr. Falcone."
"Does she have family?"
"Single mom. One kid."
"We take care of Katie and her kid, whatever they need. Accommodation. Medical care. Fucking anything."
"Consider it done."
I move past him to the room.
A man is zip-tied to a steel chair in the center of it. He’s unremarkable. Expensive shirt, neat hair, polished shoes. The kind of man you’d never look twice at in a crowd.
I notice the wedding band. Asshole.
He's crying. They always cry, once they're sober and know it’s time to pay.
"Mr. Di Zaro—please—it was a misunderstanding. I swear to God, I'd had too much to—"
I don't answer.
I take off my jacket and hand it to John Marco, then roll my sleeves to the elbows, watching the piece of shit as I do it.
I crouch to his eye level.
"I want to tell you something about myself," I say, my voice dangerously low. "I have done things that would turn your hair white. Bad things. Bloody things. Things so bad that most men would be afraid to do them because of what they would make them. Dark, monstrous things. You would think I would have trouble sleeping; after all, I’m not a psychopath. I have a conscience. But you know, I have slept like a newborn every single night since. You know why? Because things always fall into two categories. The things I tolerate. And the things I don’t. That is all that matters to me in this world.”
He nods like nodding might save him.
“And when things fall into the category I don’t tolerate, I don’t feel one ounce of remorse or emotion about what I do next. Because the things I don’t tolerate are vile and nefarious, and let’s just face it, the cunts who do it are asking for it. They deserve what comes next.”
“Please … she was into it… She wanted it… It was just a bit of fun…”
My rage spikes with a hot surge.
"Shut the fuck up. Or the next word out of your mouth will be your last. I’ve seen the footage.” I run my tongue over my teeth. “Now, I will ask one last time. Can you guess which category your behavior falls into?”
“I-I … I was drunk… I didn’t …”
“I … I … I…” I grab his right hand and press it flat against the chair’s armrest. "You know what I don’t tolerate. Men who decide a woman's body is theirs because they want it to be." I close my hand over his fingers. "Those men, I take apart. And I always start with the part that started the taking."
He starts to sob. "Oh God, no… I didn’t do anything."
