Renzo:
I sat in the far corner of my port warehouse, the salt from the bay mixing with diesel fumes and the wet stink of crates that’d been dragged halfway across the ocean. The air was cold, but sweat stuck under my collar. The lights overhead flickered once, but I didn’t move.
I didn’t say a word when they dragged Gianni in. One man on each side, his shoes scraping the concrete. His knees were bloody from where they’d dragged him from his cell to me. He looked like s**t — shirt torn, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and blood.
He couldn’t look up. He wouldn’t dare.
I tapped ash from my cigarette into an empty tray on my side stool. I wasn’t doing whiskey tonight.
They dropped him in front of me. He hit the floor hard, palms slapping concrete as he tried to stay on his knees.
“
