Page 112 of The Vagabond

“Brando—”

“No.” Brando jabs a finger toward the truck. “You said this piece of shit led you here. And what’d you find, huh? Girls. But not Maxine.So he either lied—” Brando slams a palm into the SUV beside Zack’s head “—or he’s hiding something.”

“Ready to talk?” Kanyan asks, stepping forward slowly, steely voice quiet. His tone is calm, but I know what that calm means. It’s not mercy—it’s management. Like he knows exactly how far he can let Brando spiral before someone has to step in and pull him back from the edge of no return. But looking at Brando now? There might not be an edge left. Because it looks like he’s already over it.

Zack stays on his knees, panting through a busted lip, skin slick with blood and sweat as he tries to hold it together.

But Brando Gatti doesn’t have the patience and control owned by the rest of the Gatti brothers. Brando is storm and steel. And in this moment, with his bloodlust stretching across the shipping yard like wildfire, I know—bone-deep know—that Brando Gatti is capable of anything. He crouches low, eye to eye with Zack, and pulls something from his coat pocket.

A knife. Not a gun. A fucking blade.

It's long and curved, blackened metal with a handle worn smooth from years of use. It’s not a showpiece—it’s personal. Intimate. A knife you use when you want to feel the damage. He flicks it open with a practiced motion. The sound it makes is sharp, final. My spine goes ice cold.

“I’ve been real nice up to now,” Brando says softly, voice coiled and shaking with restraint. “I let you keep your face. I let you keep your fingers. You’re still breathing.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “But if you’re going to sit there like a good little soldier who’s loyal toour enemywhile our clock ticks slowly…?”

Zack glares at him, chest heaving, mouth shut tight.

Brando smiles. It’s a slow, terrifying thing. Then he grabs Zack by the hair, jerks his head back, and presses the flat of the blade to his face.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Then let’s start small.”

The tip of the knife drags lightly along Zack’s cheek, just enough to draw a bead of blood. Brando watches it with interest, like he’s mapping out a design.

“You know what happens to men who don’t talk when I need them to?” he murmurs, voice almost gentle. “They lose the parts that keep them quiet.”

Zack starts shaking his head, trembling now.

Brando’s smile stretches, slow and razor-thin.

“I respect loyalty,” he says, voice laced with mock disappointment. “But don’t mistake that for restraint.” His eyes harden. “I’ll cut out your fucking tongue and toss it to the gulls if that’s what it takes to get what I want.”

Zack flinches violently. “You’re insane?—”

“No,” Brando says, eyes blazing. “I’m pissed off. There’s a difference.”

He presses the blade harder under Zack’s jaw, tilting his face toward the sky.

“You will talk, Zack. Because this?” He gestures to the night, the yard, the bodies, the blood. “This is the part before the pain starts. And once I start? I don’t stop. And you will bleed out on these docks. Now, are you willing to die for your loyalty?”

Kanyan steps closer now, not to stop him—but just enough to remind Brando that there’s a line somewhere in the sand. But Brando? Brando wipes that line out with the heel of his boot. Because I think he wants to cross it.

And Zack? He’s finally seeing it.

The fear blooms in his eyes. The arrogance fades. He’s living on borrowed time. And the clock just ran out.

“I don’t knowwhere she is,” Zack stammers, breath hitching, sweat sliding in thick, salty rivers down his filthy face. His voice is barely more than a mumble, trembling around the cracked edges of desperation. “All I know is this is where they’re keeping the girls.”

Brando’s smile is slow. Dangerous.

“So you gave us something,” he says, crouching low, blade still glinting in the dim yard light. “Just not necessarily the thing we wanted.” He taps the flat edge of the knife against Zack’s chest—light, rhythmic. The way you might tease a piano key before slamming it down.

“That tells me you’re not just lying,” Brando continues. “It tells me you weighed your answers. Measured them. Which means you think Maxine’s worth more than the twenty-six bodies we just pulled out of that fucking container.” His eyes harden. “That true, Zack?”

“I—I don’t know,” Zack stutters, shifting, straining against the invisible noose tightening around him. “I told you everything I know?—”

Brando’s hand moves fast. Too fast.

He grabs Zack by the throat and slams the back of his head into the car. Zack yelps, limbs flailing, panic rising in waves.

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