Leonardo
Luca’s scream rips through the basement in a high, wet and broken pitch. It echoes off the concrete walls, crawling beneath my skin in a way that would make any normal man sick.
But I’m not normal.
And this piece of s**t deserves worse.
I yank the knife out slowly, loving the way his body jerks, then drive it back in deeper this time.
His throat cracks around another scream, but it loses strength halfway and fades into a pathetic whimper. Sweat, piss, and vomit mix beneath the chair, the smell so strong even my men moved further away earlier. But I stay right in front of him. I want him to drown in his own filth.
Two hours. I’ve been at this for two long, miserable hours, ever since I returned from Russia and learned again that Augustus Falcone had slipped through my finger
