Nicco: Devil's Spawn Book 1

Ch. 38: Like Cannibals

NICCO

Carl's men lock the door after I enter.

It is 7:35 pm.

Bertie Gallagher sits before me in the darkened room. I resist the urge to pity him. Graying, balding, and beer-bellied, he looks more like a washed-up, fifty-six-year-old suburban dad than a crooked asshole who committed countless crimes for the cartel. I know he does not deserve anyone's sympathy. My men and I did our fucking homework on Bertie.

To date, he has funneled millions of pounds of coke money into the Beltráns' shell companies across the UK.

Five years ago, he even killed one of his associates, Chase Hughes, for threatening to rat out their operation.

On record, though, Hughes died of suicide.

Bertie's wrists and ankles are currently bound to the chair. A blindfold covers his eyes. He does not know where we are, who we are, or what we want with him. His screams and protests are muffled by the duct tape on his mouth.

The man looks ready to piss his pants.

Bene.

I want to make an impression on him. Perhaps, this way, he may cooperate without the need to employ harsher interrogation tactics. I will take no pleasure in using Bertie as collateral damage, but I cannot afford to be a gentleman. Not when I am dealing with gruesome fucks like the Beltráns.

They have come to destroy mia famiglia's legacy.

They have violated and threatened my fiancée.

I must show them that every action has a consequence. Consequences that bear broken bones and ruined lives.

I reach over to rip the tape from Bertie's mouth.

He lets out a shriek of pain followed by a fearful stammer, "Wh-Who are you?"

I speak in low tones, an almost-whisper, to mask my voice. "Do not worry about who I may be. The only person you should be worried about is yourself."

"What do you want with me?" he whimpers.

"Your cooperation."

"Fuck off!"

I grab my gun and ram the end of the grip into Bertie' temple. It knocks his head backward. He groans in distress. The blow does not draw blood, but it leaves a dark bruise. Patiently, I explain, "I do not think you comprehend your predicament. Let me speak clearly since you seem to be slow on the uptake. Tell me everything you know about Ted Manning."

He screeches, "What if I don't know shit about Ted Manning?"

Ignoring his hysterics, I relay calmly, "You cannot see it, but there is a table in front of you. On the table, I have prepared a loaded gun. A glass of water with a bottle of antidepressants. A razor blade. And a pen and paper."

This is the exact same setup Bertie presented Hughes all those years ago. According to Monte's sources, Bertie forced Hughes, at gunpoint, to write a suicide note before choosing one of three ways to take his own life. Bertie tenses up. His pasty complexion grows even paler.

Bertie tries to play dumb, but the guilty tremor in his voice betrays him, "You have the wrong guy. I-I really don't know you're going on about. Just let me go!"

"You do not know Manning?"

He makes one last attempt to play dumb, "N-Never heard of him."

Bertie's defiance annoys me, but I suppose it would have been disappointing if he surrendered too easily. I would imagine that men with loose tongues do not survive long under the Beltráns. My jaw tightens. If he wishes to play hard ball, then I will play harder. I barely recognize the cold, soulless timbre in my words when I growl, "That is a shame. I was hoping to wrap this up in an hour or two. Your loving wife and two teenage sons must be eager for you to come home."
He grits his jaw. "Are you threatening my family or some shit?"