Zade
“Your brother’s got him ready for you, Signor Vitalo,” Salvatore informs me as I walk into the aluminum-cladded warehouse at the docks. He’s just about bouncing on the balls of his feet.
I’ve long since lost enthusiasm for the darker aspects of my work, but there’s a faint restless feeling in my fingers tonight, as if they’re still itching for what’s coming.
“Grazie, Salvatore,” I say as I cross the epoxy floors to the steel-slab door at the back of the building that leads down. Down to a concrete-walled room. Down to a room I’ve ventured into many times before.
Salvatore follows me, then rushes ahead at the bottom of the stairs to open the door to the concrete room.
Inside, there are two chairs, one of them steel and bolted to the concrete floor that’s been stained a rust color
