The interrogation room smells like copper and fear.
I've been in this basement more times than I can count—my father had it soundproofed when I was twelve, told me it was where men learned to tell the truth. Back then, I thought he meant it philosophically. Now I know he meant it literally.
The Castellano lieutenant is zip-tied to a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. His name is Vincent something—I didn't bother learning his last name. Dead men don't need full introductions. Blood drips from his split lip onto his expensive suit, and I can see the moment he realizes this room is where his story ends.
"Let's try this again," I say, circling him slowly. My footsteps echo in the empty space. "Where is Marco De Luca?"
Vincent lifts his head, and despite the beating Marco already gav
