Rosa nods and squeezes my hand. I notice that she’s deliberately avoiding Pietro, not looking at him, not speaking to him, not going anywhere near him. He notices it too, his chin against his chest, his face contorted from pain. It’s a good look on him.
“So, Donna, short version then. Tomasso?—”
“The Grand Ball Sack,” I correct, grinning at her. She returns the smile, and I see how much it lifts her, having me here. Me having her back.
“Yeah, that’s his new name, okay? Anyway. The Grand Ball Sack is having some kind of late-life crisis and has decided he’s launching a takeover of all the Vecchissime, and possibly of the Coscas.”
“The Coscas?” Donatella frowns at me. She’s seen my ink. She knows what I am. “What the fuck is Tomasso doing messing with the vamp Mafia?”
“We don’t really know yet,” Rosa replies. “We’re still piecing things together. But Don Vincenzo, that’s Luca here’s boss, has more information. He thinks the Grand Ball Sack is making moves, and Pietro agrees. And Donna… He was the one who got Anna Lombardi killed.”
Donatella’s eyes cloud at this news, but she stays silent, her lips pursed together. “You’re sure?” she eventually says.
“As I can be. And I think he’s been orchestrating all the Calls. That he’s the one behind the attack on Paola, and I suspect you were next. Me… Well, he had other plans for me. And that really is a long story and will most definitely have to wait for another day.”
Donna nods, her silky blond hair swaying with the movement. “And this guy? Kurt? Is he any use to you or should I throw him back on the street?”
“He’ll be of use,” I growl. “He’ll tell us what we need to know, I promise you that.”
“Maybe.” Her pert nose wrinkles as she looks from me to him. “But I did my best to soften him up on the way here, and he gave me nothing. Perhaps you’ll be more persuasive.”
“He will,” Rosa pipes up, sounding excited. “He has a non-sex dungeon in the basement.”
“Ha! It’s only a non-sex dungeon until someone has sex in it, you know?” her friend says, looking at me suggestively. “Personally, I enjoy a bit of blood with my coitus.”
I don’t react to her provocation, but I see Donna for exactly what she is. Rosa told me this Seer was a gossip, a socialite, a gadfly. That she was a hive of information because everybody liked her, because everyone relaxed around her, because she made them all laugh.
Rosa might see all of that, but I see a grade A predator standing in my living room.
I look away from her probing eyes. After hefting Kurt over my shoulder like the sack of shit he is, I head down the stone staircase into the basement.
Time to have some fun.
CHAPTER 22
ROSA
Iam not a fan of torture, but I can make exceptions.
I spent some time catching up with Donatella, filling her in on everything that’s been happening—including the sex part because she’d already figured that one out—before letting her head off to wash up.
Then I follow Luca down to the basement. He’s not difficult to find. The screams and cries float through the house like background music in an elevator. I asked Matteo why the house wasn’t soundproofed when everything else seemed pretty high tech. I mean, they built an internal portcullis, but they skimped on the insulation?
“Nah, the walls are soundproofed,” he told me. “So, like, the house next door and nobody passing by can hear. But inside, not so much. If there’s more than one staying with us, we keep ’em separate—one upstairs in the waiting room while the other gets his treatment. Scares the shit out of them listening to their buddies wail.”
The look of delight on his face reminded me again that I was dealing with inhuman creatures here. I’ve always known that, but it can be easy to forget at times.
The door to the basement looks ordinary. White wood, brass handle. Like I could open it and find a laundry room or a bunch of teenagers watching movies and sneaking booze. The sounds coming from inside suggest otherwise.
I take a deep breath and enter.
Kurt is attached to a pulley device, his wrists enclosed in thick iron shackles. Adjustable chains run from the wall up to a meat hook in the middle of the ceiling, and our new friend is hanging from it. At the moment, he is scrabbling on the barest of tippy-toes, trying to relieve the pressure on his arms. One tug of the lever, and he’d be dangling.
Was this what Luca had in mind when he said he wanted to string me up? I study the device and realize that I’m interested—that I’d be willing to experiment.
But not here.
This place reeks of pain and suffering and death, the coppery tang of blood and the stink of shit hanging in the air. I’d need a damn tetanus shot if I got naked here.
