1
Alessio
The Rolls Royce pulls to a stop in front of Butcher and Son, and Luca meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Would you like me to wait, Mr. Scarcello?”
“No.” I reach for the door handle. “I’ll call for you when I’m ready to return to the city.”
He bows his head and waits for me to exit the vehicle before quietly rolling away. I glance at my phone briefly to note the time before the door to the abandoned slaughterhouse opens, and one of Marchesi’s men gestures me inside.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Scarcello,” he says. “Mr. Marchesi is waiting for you in the back.”
I nod in response and head for my intended business. My visit to New York will not be a lengthy one, and I’m eager to get it over with, so I can return to my obligations at home.
Behind the aged plastic door curtain, I find Marchesi sipping from a mug of coffee at one of the old butcher tables while he reads the paper. He glances up, startling slightly at my presence.
“Goddamn, we need to put a bell on you, Scarcello.” He chuckles. “You always manage to scare the shit out of me.”
I don’t reply. It’s something I’ve heard many times before, and why it should surprise him that I move quietly, I have no idea. It’s to my benefit, and knowing my occupation and reputation, he should expect nothing less.
“It’s good to see you again.” He removes a white envelope from his pocket and slides it across the table to me. “The Ruin appreciates you making the trip to Desolation to assist us with this case.”
“It’s not a problem,” I answer curtly, sliding the envelope into my jacket pocket. This isn’t my first song and dance with the underground network in New York. Some call them a mafia outfit. Some just call them criminals. I don’t call them anything except clients. They aren’t affiliated with The Society, so we are nothing more than associates.
“There’s half up front,” he tells me. “I’ll be around when you finish for final payment. Just come find me. The client is in the freezer.”
I nod and leave him to his coffee while I slip into the back where the old freezers have been left to collect dust. It’s not my first visit to Butcher and Son, and I doubt it will be the last. Though I have no affiliation with The Ruin itself, they often contract my services when their more primitive methods fail to gather the intel they need, or the target is a trickier subject that requires discretion. Today, I have traveled to Desolation, New York, to extract information from a man I don’t know, one I don’t care to know. To me, he is just a number. He is a job to complete. I always complete my assignments, no matter how gruesome the task might be. They call me The Debt Collector for a reason. I never walk away from a target without payment, be it flesh or information.
The freezer door creaks open under the weight of my grip, and the musty odor of dust combines with the permanent decay of blood. This is why they bring the clients here. Time does not erode that smell or the stains on the floor. It foreshadows what’s to come, and it does a number on the human psyche to wait in such conditions, uncertain of the outcome.
I lock eyes with the man bound and hanging by his wrists from a butcher’s hook. He looks to be in his late forties with thinning hair and a pot belly. He’s wearing a yellow fishing shirt and khaki pants that are already stained with his piss. He reeks of desperation as his gaze meets mine, and he attempts to mumble something through the cloth gag in his mouth, but I have no interest in hearing anything just yet.
I waste no time setting down my medical bag and removing my suit jacket, hanging it onto one of the empty hooks. While he groans out muffled fragments of sentences, I roll up my sleeves and slip on some latex gloves. Then I unravel my tool kit, laying it out on one of the shelves before making my first selection, a filet knife.
I always start with primitive torture first. It’s not an endgame. It’s a warmup. From experience, I have learned that psychological torture wins every time. First, you have to bloody them up and exhaust them by depleting their adrenaline response. The crash will always tip the results in my favor. Despite what many of my contractors like to believe, I don’t possess any special talent, and this isn’t an art form. I simply understand the laws of human nature.
“I’m here to extract the information you’ve been withholding,” I begin calmly. “And I want to be clear, when you meet with me, you only have two options left. This is a simple exchange of blood and flesh. You will give me what I require, or you will die a slow, brutal death. Do you understand?”