“You didn’t, youcazzofucker!”
The two go back and forth like children, squabbling among themselves over who is right and wrong. I stand by and let them until agitation pinches the vein in my neck. I walk over to the table in the room pushed up against the wall and open the black briefcase. Inside are the knives I’ve instructed my men to deliver me.
Bernardo and Oscar fall silent the second I hold up my selection, a Balisong with a fine blade that glints in the light.
“We’re going to test who is being truthful and who is lying. Put your hands flat on the table.”
“Psycho... what are you...” Bernardo gulps.
“I said put your hands on the table. I’m not going to tell you a third time. You choose not to and I have my answer.”
Both men slap their hands flat on the table, though not without visible nervousness. Oscar’s hand trembles. Sweat sheens on Bernardo’s pale face, making him appear like he’ll puke any second. I start circling the table at an agonizing pace, each step measured and slow. The Balisong knife I’ve picked up glides between my fingers at an opposite speed—fast and reckless.
Over the years I’ve developed a talent for handling knives. I regularly hone my skills and practice throwing them. It’s a good violent hobby for a guy like me.
This moment is about intimidation, so I twirl the Balisong knife between my fingers as though it’s not sharp and deadly enough to do real harm.
“Bernardo, how is your son holding up?”
“G-good,” he stutters. “He’s doing better. Broken leg.”
“You can’t fake that,” I say.
He nods. “That’s right!”
“Gimme a break, doesn’t mean you didn’t screw me over!” Oscar’s voice trembles with passion as he half raises out of his chair.
“You showed up late. An hour late. In that hour something very bad happened to her.”
“Psycho, why would I purposely set her up? Haven’t I always protected her? I’ve always intercepted any danger that’s come her way.”
“That’s true. You’ve done well intercepting danger to her in the past.”
“And I haven’t?” Bernardo pipes up.
“I’ve been in his crew longer than you!”
“That ain’t got shit to do with anything!”
Oscar hangs halfway out his chair, rage flared on his face. “It means I’m more trustworthy than you—AHHH, FUCK!”
I’m making my rounds, walking in circles, rolling the spine of the knife handle through my fingers. When I reach Oscar, I strike. I’m fast, lodging the knife into the wooden surface of the table—andstraight through Oscar’s hand resting on it.
He screams in hysterics, jumping up to his feet. He’s unable to go anywhere. His hand’s pinned to the table by the blade of my knife. Blood pools around the deep gash and his cries fill the room. The sound of raw agony.
I withdraw my gun and point it at Bernardo’s temple. I cock back the hammer. I’m not messing around.
This is for real. I’ll blow his brains out. No hesitation.
“This is the last time I’m asking,” I say. “Somebody better confess. Who the fuck set her up?”
Oscar weeps, sweating and shaking. Bernardo rolls his lips together as if he’s about to puke.
I step to Oscar and grip the handle of the knife with my free hand. Rather than unsheathing it from the table, I drive it in further. Oscar’s knees buckle and he cries out in broken Italian.
“I asked a question!” I shout. My gaze lands on Bernardo even as I torture Oscar. “Who is it? Come clean or somebody’s getting a bullet next!”
The door busts open and Stitches trips over himself in his haste to enter. He’s wheezing and clutching his side, his glasses low on his sweaty nose.