“I want to see her. I’m her friend.”
“Did you call her a ‘stupid twat’?”
Mills’ mouth had already been open, prepared for the next asinine statement, but in response to Nick’s question, he blinked and shut up.
“That’s answer enough. So you’re not her friend. In fact, I don’t think you ever were her friend, were you?”
“Fuck you. I’ve been her best friend since she was twenty.”
“That’s not true. Not if you want more. You want more, don’t you, Mills? You’re in love with her.”
Again, the idiot only blinked. And then he found his capacity for speech. In fact, he shouted. “So what if I am?! I’m a lot better for her than you are. I know her better and I’ve loved her longer. I’m safer for her, too. You’ve already gotten her hurt twice. She was in the break-in, wasn’t she? I saw her working that night. That was about you, wasn’t it? You’re going to get her killed next!”
With calculated speed, Nick shot his arm out and wrapped his hand around Mills’ throat. Before the man could react, Nick dragged him to the side of the hallway and put him against the wall. Mills’ hands grabbed onto Nick’s and tried to pry him off, but he had no chance. His face turned a livid shade of red that was his physiological response to blood and oxygen constriction mixed with a healthy dose of fear.
“Listen carefully, Mills. If Beverly wants to see you, she will go to you. Or she will call for you. Until that time, you will stay away from her. If you try to see her again, if you come to the homes of any of my family again, or if you make threats against me and mine again, I will kill you, and I won’t be quick.” He squeezed his fingers a little more, deepening Mills’ color to purple. “Do you understand me?”
From above him, a hoarse, strained voice called out, “Nick, stop!”
Without easing his hold, Nick looked up and saw Beverly standing at the top of the stairs, looking over the railing. She wore one of the long t-shirts he’d had brought from her apartment the day before, with her white terrycloth robe over it. Her knees were bare except for the gauze wrapped around them.
“Beverly, go back to bed.”
Mills struggled harder, until Nick tightened his grip enough to still him. He looked back over his shoulder and saw Beverly working her way down the stairs, both hands holding the bannister, putting both feet on each step before moving down to the next. She was in obvious pain.
“Let him go. Please,” she croaked.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed. You’re not strong enough.”
“Nick, please.”
Nick let him go. He left Mills doubled over and gasping and went to the foot of the stairs as Beverly finished her slow slog down. He took her hands and helped her down the last step. “Bella, don’t get involved in this.”
“It’s about me. How can I not be?”
He could hear the effort it cost her to speak. “You’re hurting yourself.”
From behind him, Mills rasped, “She’s come to me. So butt out.”
The guy was either a moron or he had a death wish. Or he was crazy in love. Either way, by the time Chris Mills left the premises, he would be done causing trouble, one way or another.
Beverly pulled her hands from Nick’s and walked slowly around him. “Is what you said true?”
“God, Bev. You’re so hurt! Look what he did to you!” Mills reached out to her, but she stepped back, toward Nick.
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“Are you in love with me?”
Mills stared at Beverly for a long time. And then he stood ramrod straight. “Yes. I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you. I love you so much, Bevvie. Come with me. Let me take you someplace safe. I’ll take care of you. Please.”
She took another step back. “So you’ve been lying to me since I’ve known you? You only wanted to be my friend so you could get with me?”
Seeing where this meeting was going, Nick supposed he could have felt smug. Instead, he felt worried. Beverly wasn’t strong enough to confront this information now. Only an hour before, he’d told her his story and held her while she cried. She was physically and emotionally broken, and the clear loss of a long friendship was the last fucking thing she needed.
“No! Not lying. I am your friend. I want to be more, but I am your friend. Bevvie, you know that—think of what we’ve been through together. We’re there for each other. I love you.”
Mills stepped toward her, and she took another step back. She was standing right in front of Nick now, and he laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. He could feel her shaking. When her hand came up to hold his, he felt a small measure of relief. He’d be her strength.
He saw Mills notice and process that nonverbal communication, and he saw a subtle but dangerous shift in his expression. The concerned friend had taken a step back, and the thwarted lover had stepped forward. Nick moved to the side, so that his arm was across Beverly’s shoulders. If the bastard took another step toward her, the conversation would be decidedly over; Nick would see to it.
When he spoke again, Mills’ voice was much lower. “You’re really picking the man who nearly got you blown up and let that happen to your face over me. I’ve been there for you, Bev. For years, I’ve been there.”
“Because you were waiting for your chance. Not to be my friend.”
“You’re splitting hairs.” He sighed. “But okay. I guess you’ve made your choice.” With that, he turned toward the front door.
Nick let him open the door and walk through it. Then he called out, “Sam. Hold him.” Through the still-open door, he saw Sam grab Mills’ arm. Then he turned to Beverly.
“Come and sit.” He led her into the living room and eased her down onto a sofa. She didn’t fight him.
But as he stood upright again, she said, “Please don’t hurt him. Just make him go.” Despite her struggle to make herself heard, almost no sound was getting through anymore, and the effort was causing her a lot of pain, and probably new damage.
He kissed her hand. “Shh. I’ll be right back.”
He went out to the front porch, where Sam had tight hold of Mills—who now, finally, had found the sense to be truly afraid.
As Sam held Mills, Nick walked up and stood right in front of him. Nick was a few inches taller, and he got close enough to force Mills to look up.
“What I said earlier stands. Unless she comes to you, you stay away from her. If you do anything to get on my radar again, I will kill you. That includes talking to reporters or anyfuckingbody else. Do you understand?”
Mills nodded.
“Say it.”
“I-I understand.”
Nick stepped back. “Good. I’ll find Chief Lumley, and he’ll do with you as he pleases.”
He turned and went back into the house.
~oOo~
The Paganos rarely did wetwork on the premises of the shipping company, but Nick preferred to stay near the harbor. The less transporting of the aftermath, the better. On this night, he and Matty met J.J. and Picker, J.J.’s second, at the far end of the harbor from Pagano Brothers Shipping, in a row of rental warehouses, used primarily as overflow storage for Quiet Cove businesses or offload storage for ships in for repair. The Paganos kept the unit at the end of the row, under a dummy name.
Such precautions weren’t obviously necessary, since the Paganos had always had wide leeway in Rhode Island to conduct business as they saw fit, but extra layers of care made sense nonetheless. There had been, over the decades of their power, the occasionally errant federal agent or state attorney who thought he or she might make his or her bones at the expense of the Paganos. The family’s relationships with people more powerful than such upstarts had kept them clear, but there was no point in making connections too obvious.
Uncle Ben had always advised that it was disrespectful of their friends to flaunt their favors.
J.J. and Picker were waiting when Sam drove up in Nick’s SUV and saw Nick and Matty safely out.
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Matty. All that remained of Nick’s crew. When this night was done, he’d have to reassign him. He’d put him with J.J. Matty wasn’t capo material himself; his vices were too many. But he’d be a good and loyal eye for Nick regarding J.J.’s fitness to lead. When this night was done, J.J. would be the family’s head enforcer.
When this night was done, Nick’s days of rolling up his sleeves would be over.
As he walked up to J.J., Nick said, “Tell me.”
J.J. dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out, kicking the butt clear. “We got Church in there and the two guys who did the diner—the two still alive, anyway.”
“You’re sure you got the right guys?”
“Yeah—got some intel. The stiffs left behind were part of a Bosnian crew on Church’s payroll. Always worked together. There were five in the crew, but the fifth is in the hospital, on life support. OD’d two weeks ago. We rounded up the two still walkin’ and leaned on ‘em till they came clean. The big bald guy gave up Church. Got him coming out of the Pink Hole, two men on him. You only said you wanted Church and the guys that did your—the diner, so we took those guys out.”
“Bodies?”
“In the warehouse, wrapped and ready.”
The night would be long—there would be five bodies to lose. But it seemed J.J. had done a perfectly competent job. Nick nodded and headed toward the door. The others fell in behind him.
Inside the wide, bare space, three men were bound. J.J. had done this well, too. Two white men, one large and bald, the other more average, with a receding hairline and a long, thin, brown ponytail, were hanging from big winch hooks of the kind so common in a harbor. Heavy chains led from the hooks into the winch attached to the ceiling.
Their wrists and ankles were bound. They had obviously been leaned on, but neither had been worked over excessively. The constant stress on their arms was probably the worst torture they’d yet experienced.
Again, Nick had to admit to himself that J.J. had not yet screwed up this job—not obviously, at least.
Alvin Church, would-be king of the Rhode Island underworld, was lashed to a steel support beam, his wrists bound around the beam, and his body chained at his throat, shoulders, waist, and ankles. He did not appear to have been touched, other than to be bound.
The Bosnians had been stripped bare. Church had been left dressed, according to Nick’s orders.
All three were gagged, with rags stuffed into their mouths. J.J. had heard that lesson, too—stuffing was a much more effective silencer than tying. And Nick had no need for any of these men to talk. Only to listen. And to see.
After taking a few brief seconds to see his subjects, he turned and walked to his worktable at the far end of the room. Matty followed. When he looked back to see that J.J. had not, he waved him over.
He took off his Armani suit coat. He always wore a suit to work, even work like this, even work like the ambush in Danbury. This was his job, and he was a businessman. Another lesson he’d learned from his uncle and father. Dress like a professional, not like the professional’s hired help. He had ruined a few suits over the years, but he did not revel in his work; he did not play—so, often, he was able to wash his hands, roll his sleeves back down, put his jacket back on, and go home.
Tonight, he saw no reason he wouldn’t be able to do just that. Tonight, he was passing the torch.
He hung his jacket over a wooden hanger and began rolling up his sleeves. “J.J., I want you to get your hands dirty tonight.” He gave him a long look. “Which one had a blade with a bone handle?” Beverly had woken from a nightmare and, sobbing, had gritted out that terrible detail.
“The big guy—why?”
Nick didn’t answer. That fat fuck had cut on Beverly. He was going to pay extra. “Where is it?”
“Here.” J.J. walked over to a trash bag and rooted through it until he came up with the knife. He brought it to Nick.
Nick set it on the worktable with his tools. “He goes second. Make sure he watches what happens to his friend. J.J., you take the friend. Do your thing. I have one requirement: he eats his dick.”
J.J. paled a bit at that but nodded. And they got started.
~oOo~
J.J. did well, with little prodding from Nick. He wasn’t creative, and he did make a mess, but by the time the guy was dead, he had suffered horrors that were sure to have been beyond his own imagining, and he’d died screaming around his own dick. They left his naked body hanging from the hook, the bloody, meaty end of his dick still protruding from his mouth. Picker winched him out of the way, and he and Matty cleaned up the mess.
Not until then did Nick step up to his first subject. Fatso and Church had both spent most of the first man’s death ordeal shouting behind their gags and struggling with their bindings. Fatso was in obvious distress—as heavy as he was, hanging from the hook was probably an agony. He was lucky his shoulders had not dislocated. Yet.
He was probably a hundred pounds overweight, and his belly hung heavily over his genitals. As Nick stood before the goggle-eyed man, he pulled on a pair of heavy latex gloves.
He reached under the blubber and grabbed the man’s flaccid, average dick. The man’s muffled screams intensified, and he tried to kick his bound legs, but the jerking and rocking stressed his shoulders too much. Nick pulled a rubber band from his pocket and wound it tightly around the base of the man’s dick. A tourniquet. He didn’t want this bastard to bleed out and die too quickly. He had another means of death in mind.
Then he took the man’s knife out of his pocket and opened the blade. Again, the man renewed his horrified, terrified screams. Beyond him, Church rattled his chains. Nick knew Church figured that whatever he was witnessing was not as awful as his own end would be.
Dr. Kerr had said he thought the blade was probably too dull; that was why Beverly had been spared the horror of losing her breast. But Nick knew the pain of a dull blade, and she had not been spared that.
The blade was dull, in fact, and pitted, too—the man had not taken care of his weapon.
“Matty. Hold his belly out of my way.”
Matty did what he was told, and Nick, his way clear, pushed the knife in and through the skin just to the outside of the tourniquet. The man’s screams became an undulating, unending, sobbing wail, each wave more hysterical than the last. Nick drew the blade forward. The dull edge required that he use a sawing motion to get through the tissue. The tourniquet and Nick’s slow pace intensified the pain and controlled the blood loss so well that he barely had spatter even on his hands.
When the blade was clear, Nick had sliced the man’s dick in half, lengthwise, leaving two anatomy textbook cross-sections, albeit with rougher edges. When he stepped back, and Matty let go of his belly, the man’s bladder went, urine coming from the point at which the urethra was still intact, and the man shrieked and lost consciousness.
Nick turned his back and walked away, pulling the gloves off, turning them inside out as they came off his hands. “J.J., wake him. Use the ampules in my kit. You and Picker get him down from the hook. Matty, I want the Daughter.”
“Fuck. Really?”
Nobody but family, and Dr. Kerr, knew the details of what had been done to Beverly. Still, Nick would not countenance being questioned for his tactics here. He stopped and turned back to Matty.
He said nothing, but Matty stepped back. “Yeah. Of course. Sorry.” He turned and went toward a door in the corner, behind which was a smallish closet.
Sometimes Nick’s job required speed and subtlety—a hit, fast and clean. Sometimes, it required brutal finesse—an interrogation. Sometimes, the pain itself was the intention—revenge. For three decades, Nick had been learning how to hurt people, how to kill them. He’d never stopped learning. For two decades, his primary job had been to turn that education into practice. Those who dwelled in their world knew that when Nick Pagano came into a room like this one, unfathomable horror and pain would ensue.
His reputation had become a
powerful tool. Because he didn’t always kill his subjects—in fact, he preferred not to—there were people alive who had experienced the things Nick had learned. To foster the development of that reputation, he had studied a wide range of methods for torture and execution over the ages of history. Some methods were fascinating in their complexity; others in their simplicity. Nick favored simplicity. He had made, or had commissioned, his own versions of his favorites. The Scavenger’s Daughter was one such device.
The premise was elegantly uncomplicated: force the subject to fold over himself in a kneeling position. Then apply slowly, continually increasing pressure until the body collapsed in on itself, organs, muscles, tissues bursting, blood oozing from every available pore and orifice.
Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) Page 21