“I think we should keep him alive for at least a few days,” one of the men standing by the wall says and laughs. “Until everyone gets their turn.”
When the stocky guy swings his fist again, I pull on my arm in an effort to get away, but the bald Irishman holding me tightens his grip. He’d moved me so I was standing in Salvatore’s line of sight. The only thing I can do is watch as another blow hits home.
Since the moment Salvatore entered ten minutes earlier, the Irish have focused all their attention on him, leaving me on the sidelines with the heavy-set bald man. I was bait, used to get Salvatore here.
He hasn’t uttered a word since he arrived. Not when they dragged him to the chair in the middle of the room and tied him to it, and not while they’ve been hitting him. He just sits there
