Page 87 of Refrain

“Espi, what the fuck is he talking about?”

“Business,Daddy,” Jose says. “Don’t worry. Your little baby is in safe hands.” He looks at Mack, and the playful grin falls flat. “Let’s see how you work. Get him to talk.”

I look up at Mack again, and I don’t have to strain my neck too far. Hanging by two giant hooks caught right at the indents of each shoulder blade, he’s only about a foot from the ground. Blood drips down and forms a puddle underneath him. The bastard has to be in an insane amount of pain, but he just grins.

“Don’t fucking tell me. Little Espi.You’regoing to try to make me talk?” His body jerks on the hooks as he throws his head back and laughs, long and loud. “You must be losing your fucking touch, Jose—” He breaks off in a grunt of pain.

I glance down as his body twists in grotesque slow motion and see why—Someone jammed a knife into the meat of his upper thigh.

“I gave you a head start,” Jose says, shrugging when my gaze finds him by the wall. “But we don’t have all day to play around, boy. Show me what you’ve learned.”

The words work like a trigger on my memories. Oh, I learned from the master. How to break someone. How to push them just far enough for them to beg for the end. Only to slowly reel them back…and then push them again. Harder. Further.

They’re past praying for death at that point. They’d endure anything to make the merry-go-round of agony stop. Say anything. Do anything.

I learned from the master—and he wasn’t Jose.

“Espi.” Arno comes up behind me, his footsteps heavy. “Fuck this shit. You’re not doing this.” He jabs a finger in Jose’s direction. “He’snot doing this—”

“Arno—” I cut myself off, unsure of what the fuck I’m even trying to say.Shut the hell up? Let me think.

The bastard knows something. I can smell it. I can see it in his eyes, which glow with a mixture of pain and just plain smug fucking arrogance. Mack, the Mad Dog, was more cunning than the average dumbass punk. He covered hisbasesand did nothing without insurance.

“I thought this piece of shit was already dead,” Arno adds, spitting at Mack’s feet. “Where the fuck did you find him?”

Jose shrugs, his expression revealing nothing. “I have my ways. The Russians dealt with him…uniquely, but as you know, I’m not particularly fond of the Russians.” He leaves it at that, and Arno doesn’t ask him anything else.

Frankly,I don’t think he wants to know. And Mack… The bastard just laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

The sound ricochets off the inside of my skull. Loud. Insistent. I doubt even another knife in his flesh would shut him up.

“Darcy…” Her name trickles out of me before I register the guilt. It draws a reaction from Mack though; he shuts the fuck up. “Youseenher lately?” When he doesn’t take the bait, I aim low. “I guess not. She’s been fucking half of the Gardai since you ‘left.’ I guess it is true what they say about you. You like getting screwed in the—”

“You watch your fucking mouth,” Mack bites back. “You tell him the truth, eh, Arno boy? About how you and that fucking cunt-eating brother of his turned on one of your own? Or maybe how you couldn’t even bother to make sure your own fucking sister was still alive—”

“Enough of this shit.” Squaring his shoulders, Arno turns on his heel and starts for the door. “Espi, come on—”

“Yeah, run, run, little Arnold,” Mack taunts. “You always were a pussy little shit.”

One second, Arno’s still walking. The next, he’s halfway to Mack, and only Jose is fast enough to get in between them.

“Not so fast,ese,” he says, shoving Arno back. “Don’t damagethe merchandise. Let’s see what our little friend can get out of him.”

“No…no.” Arno shakes his head as his hand flies out and lands on my shoulder, dragging me closer. “Hell no. He’s not doing shit.”

“Why don’t we askhim?” Jose turns to me, still smiling even though his eyes have lost the playful gleam. He’s all serious again, bathed in the shadows of the warehouse. “What will it be, littleEspisido? Run away and let your friend’s little establishment get blown sky high? Or…show us what you’ve learned.”

Anger and disgust flutter down my spine. My toes flex in my boots.Run. Stay.I don’t fucking know which course of action seems more appealing. A part of me wants to tell Jose to fuck off. Listen to Arno. I’vealwaysjust listened to Arno. But another part…

My gaze drifts over to the knives, and my fingers flex, remembering the feel of the ones in my kit—specifically designed for…special work. Flaying. Slicing. They were the tools of my trade, after all, helping to create a new form of artwork Dante wouldn’t approve of.

It’s funny. I don’t even remember the first time clearly. Maybe it was when some asshole on the streets pushed me too far. Or maybe it was that night when I picked up a hammer and didn’t give a fuck as to what I had to do with it. Just that I wanted to.

I don’t know how long I stand here, staring atthe wall. How long before I feel her fingertips ghost the back of my neck.Her—I know it without even having to turn around and see her there for myself. I can smell her. Feel her. This woman is in my blood, feeding off the parts of me I don’t have the stomach to acknowledge. She can fucking take them. All of them.

“Tell me.” Her voice nudges my eardrum, soft and hoarse. “What…what doyouwant to do?”

My shoulders slump. That’s a question I don’t get asked toooften these days.What do you want,Espisido?NotWhat do you need? What do you feel?

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