Page 203 of La Dolce Vita

The elevator stopped. He walked down the hall with the gun at his side. A woman and her husband saw him pass and looked surprised. Dominic arrived at the door. He kicked and kicked until it crashed in. He went inside with his gun drawn prepared to shoot every man between him and Don Mancini. No matter the cost. But the suite was empty. Room to room the search came up empty. The bastard was gone. Dominic didn't understand. Where the fuck was he? Where?

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Or kill yourself instead.

***

The driver loaded the luggage. Ignacio joined him in the back of the limo. "Dominic has just arrived at the hotel. The men said they saw him enter almost an hour ago."

"Then he must be waiting for her." Armando said.

"So this is it? You gave her the tapes? All of them?"

"I don't the need the tapes. Dominic is Giovanni's strength. He is the one who keeps it all flowing. We just removed him off the game board."

"You think he's going to lose it?" Ignacio said.

"He did once before with Franco. And if Rosetta planted the seed, well let's give it a little time to grow."

Ignacio nodded in agreement.

“The pictures? Did you get them?” Armando asked.

“I believe so. Our man knows what to do. He should have them in Sorrento by tomorrow if he has to fly in and deliver them personally.”

“Then it’s done,” Armando said.

"What happened with you and Catalina?" Ignacio asked.

Armando touched his lips. "More than I thought would happen. Much more."

***

The Battaglias hadn’t used the factory in years. At one time Catalina's dead husband Franco was in charge of operations. After his untimely death, the Battaglias decided it best to move the bottling operations for olive oil andlimoncellofurther east. The factory was the Butcher's playground now.

Carlo returned to his table of knives. Before he began, he ordered Umberto and his men to turn on the machinery. The engines purred, and the conveyor belts rolled. It was enough background noise to cover the dying man's screams. And he was one tough son-of-a-bitch. Carlo picked up the hand saw and turned it on. The razor disc spun with a loud hum.

"Get the buckets. I don't want to be here all night cleaning up!" he ordered.

He turned in a blood-slickened butcher’s apron. He wore the gloves to match. They were cumbersome to use during carving. But he found they served him well.

Alek Baldamenti hung from a hook two feet off the floor. He lifted his battered face and fixed Carlo with a look of raw hate. He was slick with sweat. They hadn't gotten to the cutting yet. Torture could break as much skin and spill as much blood. The beatings kept him conscious and coherent enough to provide information. But Alek would not budge. He showed no fear. Carlo respected him for that.

"Anything to say?" Carlo asked.

"I don't know where she is," Alek said with his gaze was fixed on the hand saw.

"But you had her?"

"I told you. She's been with us a few days. She said she had a deal... in the works, a General in theCarabinieri, someone she was going to meet.."

"For?"

"To give proof."

"What proof?"

Alek groaned.

"What proof?" Carlo demanded.

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