La Mujer Mafiosa

III: Santiago

"I'm about five seconds away from peeling your skin like a fucking potato," I said calmly, staring at the man sitting in the chair before me. Last night, I got some rest. I couldn't sleep for too long because, at four in the morning, I got a call from Matthew, my left-hand man, telling me they had caught a spy near our base.

The base was where Matthew and Marcio held meetings, telling some of the other Made Men where drops needed to be, what politicians needed talking to, and more.

My differing eyes held no emotion as I stared at the crying man, waiting for him to offer up the information I wanted. This could have been over hours ago, but he wouldn't stop crying. Every time it felt like I was getting somewhere, the man would cry with drool and snot running down his face, mixing with the blood coating his body from the wounds that had been inflicted upon him.

Usually, I wouldn't be the one down here doing this. I had people for that, someone who actually enjoyed doing this type of shit, but this was personal.

Recently, many of my men had been dropping like flies, and I wasn't sure how the perpetrator was getting away with it. This man was lurking around, his eyes looking around, seeing things, and his nose sniffing where it shouldn't. The tattoo on his shoulder gave him away and told me where he belonged. He was a part of the Spanish mafia run by Stan Marguiles, an old fuck who thought he reigned supreme over every criminal in existence.

Unfortunately for me, as of right now, Stan did reign supreme. Most of the Mafia and cartels were scared of him. It seemed every time someone crossed him, and he was in a losing battle, people started dropping dead, and once again, he was on top, laughing and smiling while looking down at his enemies, mocking them.

No one knew how he did it. I had to admit to myself that Stan was good, but I was better. Stan had to constantly deal with the police on his back, unable to persuade enough of them to look the other way and go on about their sad little lives. Stan also had to constantly deal with his men being killed by a rival gang trying to take his place as one of the world's most famous drug cartels.

They were competing for the spotlight on being wanted but uncatchable criminals. This is why I was better. I wasn't in the spotlight. Everyone knew of the Italian Mafia and its Made Men, who hid in the shadows, swift and nimble, as they moved about doing their trades and getting rid of loose ends.

The police can never pin anyone to a crime. They didn't know any names or faces, and the ones that did were paid to keep quiet; otherwise, they'd disappear, too. Any man who was locked away and was a part of my empire never saw a courtroom, and their face never made it to the news.

Any evidence the police had mysteriously disappeared, and they walked away a free man. I knew the ins and outs of everything. There were people higher up who answered to me. It wasn't just because they were paid to. I'd earned their respect correctly, showing that I was a man of my word and stayed true to those who stuck beside me.

"Please....I- I do-"

"Let another lie slip through your lips, and you won't have them by the end of this. All I need to know is your name and what the fuck you were doing near my base,"

The man was silent, refusing to answer my simple question. I would let him go afterward. I always let them go if I was the one doing the torturing, and not a single person I've tortured ever came back to get their revenge. I wasn't sure if they'd died from their wounds, if their bosses killed them, or if they were simply too scared to try and claim my head. It didn't matter either way. I would always get what I wanted.

"Please," the man cried, sniffling. Snot was still running down his nose and over his lips as the tears streamed down his face. My face scrunched up in disgust at the sight. Pathetic. I looked at my wristwatch, checked the time, and sighed. I didn't have time for this. I had to visit someone else in a few hours.

"Listen to me and listen to me carefully," I said, my voice still calm and even. I grabbed the man by his shirt and pulled him forward, the back legs of the chair lifting off the floor. The man stared at me with wide eyes, knowing his demise was coming. Either he told me what I wanted to know, or he won't leave with his life.

"It's either you tell me what I want to know, or I call someone else to get the job done. If I call her, you won't be leaving with your life,"

"Please, I-I have kids, a f-family,"

"Then I'd suggest you start talking," I said, letting the man go. His chair rocked back, almost falling. I waited patiently, twisting the knife and letting the light bounce off it. "Name?" I asked, starting over.

"Guillermo," the man whimpered. He knew he fucked up. He knew the moment he went back to Stan and told him what happened he was a dead man, but right now, I was the immediate threat. At least when returning to Stan, he'd get to see his family one last time.

"Who sent you?" silence. I looked up at the man, my mismatched eyes staring into his soul: one brown, the other green. One was almost soulless, the other showing the small amount of life and sympathy I had. I raised an eyebrow at him. He was a dead man either way. He had long ago lost his dignity the moment he started sputtering and slobbering like a baby.

"It wasn't Stan," Guillermo said, knowing the assumption I had already made. This intrigued me as I sat forward.

"Who sent you?"

"I can't," he said.

I stood up and shook my head at the idiot before me. Guillermo began to cry again, apologizing to his family and accepting his fate. I walked away toward the door and opened it, looking at the guard standing beside it. "Chiama Chiara. Dille di finire il lavoro." (Call Chiara. Tell her to finish the job.)