Page 141 of The Wicked

Does this involve torturing your victims?

Me:

Something like that. Speak soon.

I exited the messaging app, slipped the phone into my pocket, and left for the hot room.

Casmiro and Angelo, alongside three other soldiers from my torture team, stood inside the room. I didn’t acknowledge any of them as I entered. My attention was trained solely on the person I wanted to question.

When I stepped forward, every man in the room, including Casmiro and Angelo, straightened while discreetly inching back even though they were already standing at a convenient distance.

The artist sat in a mid-back iron chair with his back bending in a way that made him look more uncomfortable; his hands were strapped to each arm of the chair. No fingers. Cuts here and there on his arm. Although the wounds were treated and covered, I could still smell burning flesh.

I bottled my irritation, reaching the man, who was breathing heavily, head cast downward, clothes bloodied and dirty.

I admired his strong will. Anyone else would have killed himat this point, registering that he knew nothing and could give no useful information.

But I’d brought him here based on a gut feeling. He wasn’t leaving until I got my answer.

“Look up.” I spoke into the stale air.

His shoulders stopped moving. His breathing ceased for a second before it grew more frantic. His head snapped up, and red-rimmed brown eyes coated in fear stared at me.

“Handling you is already inconvenient, and I wouldn’t like to waste even more of my time because I have a conversation to finish in about”—I looked at my wristwatch—“thirty minutes. So, I will ask the question, and you will answer me. Not with a lie. Not with a half-truth and not with a dismissal. If you do any of these three things, you will lose more than your fingers.”

His chapped lips pressed into a thin line, determination in his eyes.

He was going to do one of the options I listed.

“What’s his first name?” I asked no one in particular without taking my eyes off him.

“Fio,” Angelo answered.

“Fio,” I repeated, “it will be in your best interest to cooperate with me.”

“I know nothing, and even if I do, and I do tell you, you will kill me either way. I know who you are.”

“It is good that you do. That’s why you will not waste my time.”

“My response remains the same. Mr. Garza wanted me to paint the damn chihuahua, and I painted the damn chihuahua. The rest were printed fakes.”

“Yet, millions of US dollars went into your bank account after you painted the original.”

“It was valuable.”

I nodded. “It was. I have spoken once with Arturo Garza. And just like me, he’s a strategic businessman. He wouldn’t make youset for life with a huge amount of money for one original painting. Not when each painting has the same intricate brushstrokes and the distinct smell of dried paint and… pine wood.”

He swallowed, panic working its way to his eyes as I continued.

“You disappeared for months. Into a very convenient safe house a few states outside of Mexico City; the said safe house was made out of the pine woods surrounding the area. Am I correct?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Strike one. Dismissal,” I announced, straightening. “The safe house I speak of was registered in Arturo’s name. I believe that is where you decided to paint?”

Fio let out a shaky breath. “Yes, Mr. Garza had given me that safe house. He didn’t want me in the city while I worked on the original painting—”

“Strike two. Half-truth. You’d already painted the original. Arturo gave you that safe house so you could paint the duplicates of the original, am I correct?”