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“Dai.” I drew out the Italian word. “Did you think we didn’t know who you were? Did you think I didn’t recognize you as one of the men who worked in my bedroom?”
Reaching behind me, I grabbed the pliers and turned them over in my hand reverently. “I think I’ll save these. They are my favorite, but you won’t be able to talk much once I start removing your teeth. Let’s start with the drill.”
After I put on latex gloves, I picked up the power tool and set to work on his right hand. My mind retreated to a darkplace, detached from my emotions, where I could inflict as much pain as possible. The biker tried to remain stoic, but when the drill bit hit bone he lost the battle. His agony-filled yells echoed off the dank cellar walls, and blood spattered my hands and forearms. Then I switched to his other hand. More drilling. More screaming.
When I finally stopped, the biker’s skin was deathly white, his chest rising and falling with the harsh force of his breaths. Each hand had a hole through it. Standing, I dragged the drill bit along the symbols of hatred on his arm. “A small, hateful man,” I sneered to my men in our language. “He probably has a small dick to match.” To the biker, I said, “You stupid fucks. You think to take me on, to take on centuries of family and honor? You think you can kill my man and I won’t make you suffer a thousand-fold?”
His head hung down, spit dangling from his mouth, so I found a knife and sliced into his arm. Blood streamed over the tattoos. “You came into the house where I’m staying. On the winery grounds, where people I care about live. You came there because of your club brother, the one I beat the shit out of. So, what did you do while you were there?”
He spit on me. Rather, he tried to spit on me, but couldn’t work up enough strength. Inhaling, I forced myself to remain calm. “Tell me, or I will drill a hole in your skull. I should warn you, it’ll hurt like hell and you’ll be able to smell the bone burning before the drill bit hits your brain.”
“Nothing,” he gasped, his body limp. “I swear.”
That was a lie. I shook my head. “This is your last chance.”
“I don’t know . . . what you are talking about.”
“Of course you do. You didn’t plant a camera or a bug, we checked. So, what did you do?”
“Don D’Agostino.” I turned and watched as Tommaso approached me, the lines of his face deeper than usual. Quietly,he spoke in my ear. “Beppe can’t find Maggie. He’s turned the whole place upside down.”
Fear gripped me, my body turning cold. “The fuck? Is it these assholes?” I gestured to the bikers.
“I don’t think so. He said when they went in for lunch, she went to the bathroom and disappeared.”
I shoved down my panic. “Get over there. Review the camera footage. Talk to her brother. Check the woods, too. If something—” I couldn’t say it. “Fucking find her,” I snarled at him.
“I will. Don’t worry, Don D’Agostino.”
“Regular updates, Tommaso.”
I faced Tater, my patience evaporated. I needed answers quickly, then I had to hurry over to the winery. I tossed a plastic retractor to Cesare and told the biker, “This will keep your mouth open.” In a blink, Cesare shoved the insert past the biker’s lips to spread open his mouth. To reveal his teeth.
I drew on a fresh pair of latex gloves, grabbed the pliers, and went over. “I usually leave the molars for last because they hurt the worst. But we’re under a time crunch, so . . . ”
Cesare tilted the biker’s head back, holding him still so I could see all his teeth, which were in bad shape. “Someone doesn’t floss,” I murmured. I had to work to get the first molar out, pulling and twisting, while the man screamed and struggled against his restraints. Finally, the roots slipped free of the jaw bone and the tooth came loose. I held it up for him to see. “Let’s take another and see if you’re ready to talk.”
Fear and pain were all I saw in his expression, his throat making pitiful little noises. This was when I knew a man was about to break, when the pain was too much and he craved death. The next molar was easier. I tossed it on the floor.
After I removed the third tooth, I received my answer.
As I suspected, the Red Raiders were pissed I beat the shit out of their man. Tater had accepted the winery job in the hopesof learning who I was, where I lived. Then they planned to come back later that night and kill me, but instead found Gaetano at the strip club.
Before I killed him, I needed one more thing. “Who is the head of your MC?”
“Baron.”
“What is his real name?”
“Pete . . . Mercer.”
Taking Tater’s mobile, I held it up to his face and unlocked it. Then I slit his throat.
Quickly, I stripped off my gloves, found the contact I was looking for, and placed the call. As the boys began cleanup and disposal, I moved away and waited for Baron to pick up.
“Where the fuck are you? You’ve been gone all day,” a smoke-hardened voice growled into my ear.
“Tater is dead,” I said without preamble.