Findings
STEPHAN GRAZIANO’S POV
The basement was thick with the stink of blood and gasoline. One bulb swayed overhead, throwing shadows across the man tied to the chair. His wrists were raw from the rope. His face was swollen, both eyes nearly shut.
I flicked the lighter open and closed in my palm. Click. Snap. Click. The sound followed the rhythm of his unsteady heartbeat. The cigarette burned low between my fingers, smoke curling into his face.
“For the last time.” I pressed the Glock under his jaw, metal biting against bone. “Whose orders were those?”
He spat blood at my shoes. His lips pulled into a broken grin. And choked on a laugh with teeth red. “You don’t…you don’t even know… how dead it goes, over my dead body would you get it from me.”
I chuckled low, dark, and cruel. The sound bounced off the concrete walls. “Over your dead body?” I leaned in close enough for him to smell the smoke on my breath. “That’s the idea.”
I grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back. His throat stretched tight. My gun stayed pressed to his skin. “One word or just one name and you leave this room in pieces.”
“You think you scare me?” His voice cracked, but he forced a laugh. “You’ll never be half the man your father was.”
That landed. I just smiled.
The lighter snapped again, flame sparking to life. I held it an inch from his cheek until the heat made him squirm. “You talk too much.”
I tossed the gun on the table and came up behind him, slipping the wire from my pocket. His head jerked when the steel slid across his throat. He thrashed, chair legs scraping, body bucking like a caught animal.
The garrote cut deep. His skin split under the wire as I hauled back, arms locked. His heels hammered the floor. He clawed at the cord, tearing his own neck open. His face went purple, spit flying as he tried to suck air.
I pulled even harder.
His boots kicked. His nails scraped uselessly at the rope pinning him down. The sounds coming out of him weren’t words anymore just wet choking, and gargling. His eyes bulged, wild and desperate,but just immediately dimmed as the fight drained out of his limbs, his body twitching, twitching, until it stilled.
I held the wire until his head slumped forward, chin to chest. The only sound left was the hum of the bulb above.
I let go, and the body sagged, blood dripping into the cracks of the floor. I picked up the Glock, wiped the handle with my sleeve, and lit another cigarette.
Then I turned to see Matteo walking in. He didn’t flinch at the body slumped in the chair. He’d seen and done worse. His expression was unreadable with a file tucked under his arm.
“You’d want to hear this,” he said simply, shutting the door behind him. “His phone was hacked, the last person on his line that day was Bruno Donato.”
“You’re telling me….” I said, voice flat, “The night my old man’s head was split open, Bruno was on the line with him?”
“Positive.” Matteo’s face didn’t move. He never brought me lies.
My teeth ground together, eleven years of questioning pressed down heavily. My father should have been made capo di tutti capi the next day. Instead, I found him cold in his study, blood staining the rug. Eighteen-year-old, too young to claim the chair but old enough to remember every detail and excuse they gave me after.
I stabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, the hiss loud in the quiet.
Matteo slid the file he came in with close. “He’s got only one family member. A daughter.
I flipped the file open. Photos of a girl spread across the desk, in one she was outside a university gate, another a drink in her hand at some party with a wide smile on her face, and another was a picture of her with friends.
My fingers tapped once on the photo. “Evadora Donato.” I tasted her name on my lips.
“She’s a university student and stays in a campus apartment,” Matteo said.
“Get me his number,” I said.
Matteo blinked. “Now?”
“Now.”
Minutes later, a phone was in my hands. My thumb hovered over the dial, the silence stretched until it snapped with the first ring. Bruno picked up, his voice smooth for half a beat then it cracked, thin as old leather.
“You called me,” he said. “Stefano, what is it this time?”
“Cut with the act,” I said. My voice was low and flat. I didn’t bother with introductions. “Your man’s last call was to you the night my father died.
There was a long, ugly silence. Bruno swallows hard. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know more than you think,” I said. “I was going to kill you off immediately, but something caught my interest.” I laughed low and sudden, the sound cutting through the room. “Why don’t we talk about your Eva?”
There was a silence at the other end. “What do you want from her?” Bruno’s voice was equal parts fear and fury.
“You’re going to give her in place of your life,” I said flatly. “And of course it's not up for bargaining.” I took a long drag and exhaled slowly, a puff that tasted like finality.
“I can’t let you use her for your wicked and dirty acts.” The sentence started as anger, but it folded into something raw and animal, the pitiful sound of man trying to keep control and failing.
He swallowed audibly, I could hear him breathing fast like someone who’d run across a room and couldn’t stop.
“For god’s sake, Stefano,” he spat, the fury snapping back into his throat, “she’s too innocent for all these, and she’s all I have left.” The plea was buried under the anger.
You could hear him trying to steady himself, a chair scraped, and he gave a quiet curse in Italian, the shuffle of papers as if he were gathering his composure.
“Exactly why I want her,” I said with a loud chuckle. “And I told you before, won't repeat myself, this is not a bargain.” I coldly reminded him. “If I don’t get her in 48 hours….” I let the pause hang heavy,…….then expect some surprise packages, Mr. Donato.
I didn’t wait for him to reply. I crushed the cigarette under my boot this time, the ember hissing out, and I cut the call.
I flicked my lighter.
“Bruno’s going to pay,” I murmured, more to myself than to Matteo.
