Page 109 of Filthy Little Fix
Sal is tiedto a chair in the center of the room, his hands bound to the armrests. He seems smaller, more fragile. Terror has shrunken him. And, sitting in a chair directly in front of him, is Dante, with his arms crossed and legs spread. They had already talked before Luca brought me. Sal's face is swollen from crying, and I can imagine why. Dante knows how to be threatening.
Luca came for me a few hours after Dante followed Dmitry. Dante wanted me here. To witness this, to give me an example of what will happen to me if I betray him, or maybe just toshow me.
Sal is miserable, pathetic. He's no evil genius. At most, a selfish coward.
Luca locks the door. I keep to the walls. Dante doesn't turn to me, and Sal doesn't lift his face. This place smells like a hospital. Disinfectant and cleaning products. It's unsettling.
"Do you know how much a man who's been with us for twenty years is worth, Nyx?"
He doesn't look at me when he asks. He looks at Sal.
I lean against the wall. The residual pains—partially devoured by the tramadol—are overshadowed by a morbid fascination. I like seeing Dante in his element. Giving orders, asserting himself, destroying.
"Twenty years," Dante continues, his voice low. I understand why Sal is trembling. That voice makes me tremble too. "It's a long time. Enough to know who we are. How we operate. What we do with rats." Then his voice changes. It's for Sal now. A real threat. "What did you think was going to happen, Sal?"
Sal shakes his head. He's crying, but he seems convinced he won't get out of here alive. I see the pistol in Dante's holster, the black polymer reflecting in the harsh lights of the basement.
"I-I helped, Mr. Volkov," Sal tries to argue. He stammers as always but finds the courage to look Dante in the eye. "I told you where he was. I gave you a way in… I helped bring Nyx back. I-I fixed my mistake, Mr. Volkov, please…!"
"You didn't fix shit," Dante says. He doesn't raise his voice. That makes him even more threatening. "You cost me time. You cost me men. You handed our greatest asset over to our enemies, and you think you deserve credit because you did what you were told at sniper-point? I'm the fucking name that's kept you alive until now. You'd do well to remember that."
He pulls the pistol from its holster. The movement is slow, calm. Sal immediately panics, shaking his head. He weeps.
"No, no, Mr. Volkov, please…"
He struggles with his arms. They're tied firmly against the chair's rests. Dante pulls ammunition from an inner suit pocket—a gray magazine.
"I don't like knowing I'm about to make your wife a widow, Sal."
He slots the magazine into the pistol. A click. Sal begs. "Mr. Volkov, please, don't do this, I have children…"
"You should be grateful, Sal. I could do this in a much worse way. I'm going to kill you quickly."
Dante pulls back the slide. Sal's eyes go wide. The logic of his plea crumbles.
"Please… please, God, no, Dante, please, don't…" he says, to a God who hasn't set foot in this basement in a long time. He looks at me. Panicked. "Mr. Hays… Nyx… please! Tell him! I can be useful! I swear! I'll do anything! Please!"
Dante ignores the appeal. He stands up with the same calm with which he reloaded the pistol. He sighs with the monotony of someone who has executed countless men for far less.
He walks over to Sal, who is now sobbing uncontrollably. He stops in front of the chair.
Without rushing, he raises the pistol. The barrel aligns perfectly with the center of Sal's sweaty forehead. He pushes the safety down. Click.
I watch the scene unfold. Dante, perfect in his finality. The calm, the posture, the way the gun is a natural extension of his will. A god of death in an expensive suit.
But I don't want this to end yet. Not like this. There's a use for the rat.
I take a step forward, out of my corner of shadows.
"Dante."
Luca stiffens at the door. Sal stares at me with a renewed, miserable hope. Dante doesn't turn, but he doesn't shoot either. The gun remains steady, aimed at Sal's head.
I keep walking, slowly, until I stop beside him. So close I can smell his cologne. It's a nice scent, woody and ironic.
"Don't kill him."
Sal's hope is so desperate it's almost pornographic. He looks at me as if I were a merciful messiah. I am not.
