Page 116 of Ruger's Rage
As he leaves with Kinsey to catch up, I turn to Bloodhound. "Get Ounce and Maddox. We're moving forward as planned."
Marco sits in the basement, secured to a metal chair, his designer clothes wrinkled and stained.
A gag prevents him from speaking, but his eyes burn with hatred as we enter.
"Morning, sunshine," I greet him coldly. "Sleep well?"
Maddox removes the gag, allowing Marco to speak.
"You're making a mistake," he says immediately, voice hoarse. "My family has connections. This won't end with me."
"Your 'family' connections dried up years ago," I counter, recognizing the empty threat. "The Santini name doesn't carry the weight it once did. No one's coming for you. If I’m remembering correctly, almost all of you fled back to Italy. Something about a cousin of yours, right? Guess that’s what happens when the family fucks up that horribly."
Fear flickers across his face before he masters it. "What do you want? Money? I can pay whatever?—"
"This isn't about money." I crouch to his eye level. "This is about what you did to Tildie."
"Elizabeth," he corrects automatically. "Her name is Elizabeth."
"Not anymore. She chose a new name, a new life." I pause, letting the next words land with full force. "A life without you."
"She'll come back," he insists, desperation creeping into his tone. "She always does. Sheneedsme."
"See, that's where you're wrong." I stand, nodding to Maddox and Ounce to untie him from the chair. "She doesn't need you. She never did."
They haul him to his feet, securing his hands behind his back with zip ties.
Real fear enters his voice now. "Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere private," I tell him. "For a conversation that's long overdue."
We take him to the abandoned office building we discussed earlier, windows broken or boarded, graffiti marking its concrete exterior.
We don’t even bother blindfolding him, because he won’t be alive to tell anyone where he went after this.
No one comes here anymore—not since the company went bankrupt and moved operations overseas.
We park around back, out of sight from the highway.
Marco struggles as we drag him from the van, but goes quiet when Maddox presses a gun to his ribs.
"Inside," I order, leading the way through a rusted service door.
The interior smells like mildew and decay, abandoned cubicles still dotting the open floor plan of the first level.
Dust particles dance in the shafts of sunlight that manage to penetrate the filthy windows.
We bypass the elevator, heading for the stairwell at the far end.
"What are you doing?" Marco asks, voice echoing in the empty space.
I don't answer, pushing open the stairwell door.
A flight of concrete steps disappear upward into what’s almost like an abyss.
I nod to Bloodhound, who flicks on a flashlight, illuminating our path.
"Third floor," I tell them.
