“You’re right. I wouldn’t, but I’d be more inclined to listen to whatever bullshit they can come up with after that.” Sammie smirks.
“I swear, Carlo. I was handed the bowl and told to send it up to you. That’s it.” The chef shakes his head from side to side. “Don’t do this.”
“Who gave you the bowl?” I press, keeping my expression neutral. Passive. The fluorescent light directly above his face constantly flickers like it’s supposed to.
The chef closes his eyes. “If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”
I laugh. “If you don’t,I’llkill you.”
The chef opens his eyes and looks directly at me. “You’ll kill me anyway.”
“You’re right. I will. But it’s up to you how long it takes me,” I remind him.
The door opens and I turn towards the sound. Emmanuel saunters in.
“You get 'em?” I ask.
“Did you doubt me?” he replies with a smirk.
“Never,” I tell him, taking the bag from his hands.
“You know, I’ve always wondered how sharp a chef’s knives were. Guess I’ll finally find out.” The bag lands on the table beside our friend here with a clank of metal and athud. “Tell me, Chef, have you ever used your knives to cut into human meat?”
I smile when his face pales. On the inside. On the outside, my expression doesn’t change. Opening the bag, I pull out the rolled-up cloth and spread it out next to the chef’s torso.
Fingering the range of options, I decide on the one in the middle. “What do you use this for? It’s a fillet knife, right?” I ask him.
“Y-yes,” he says.
“Uh, Louie, how would one fillet a thigh?” I smirk at my friend, who raises an eyebrow at me. He doesn’t answer, though. Placing the knife at the top of our captee’s bare thigh, I press just enough to pierce the skin.
“Argh, fuck. No, Carlo, please. No!” He starts thrashing his body around the table, as much as he can anyway. The binds around his wrists and ankles don’t budge. He can struggle against them all he wants.
“Ready to talk now?” I ask him again.
“I-I can’t,” he says while shaking his head.
“Good, because this is going to be fun.” I slice the knife through his thigh, peeling off a very thin layer.
Blood sprays everywhere and his screams echo off the walls, but I don’t pay him any mind. All I see is how fucking sick my wife was after she ingested the poison he brought into our home.
I hold up the slice of human meat. “You’re the expert here. Tell me, Chef, how long would you cook this up for?”
He shakes his head, his skin covered in sweat. I don’t doubt he’s about to throw up.
“No idea? Huh, guess we’ll find out.” I turn around and look at Sammie. “Fire 'er up.” I gesture to the portable grill I brought into the room for this purpose. I’ve also got a blender…
I place the flesh on a plate next to the grill and walk back to the table, this time grabbing the biggest utensil in his collection. A meat cleaver. “Now this is a knife.” I smirk at him as I hold the blade above his face.
“No! Okay, I’ll tell you,” he says.
“Who?” I grunt.
“Mr. Marciano,” the chef spits out. I’m not surprised. It’s exactly who I was expecting it to be.
“Why would my father-in-law try to poison me?” I question. I know the answer to that one too, but I’d be stupid not to try to get more intel out of this fucker.
“Not you. Your wife. The soup was meant for her,” the chef replies. “He said you wouldn’t eat coconut.”
