Whispers: A game of Lies & Deceit

Hell

After stopping Rafaele's car in the car park outside the bar, I got out quickly, pulling down the collar of the sweater that felt like it was pinching my neck. The guards nodded at me as I entered, checking emails from Alessandro, who was interested in my arrival in Naples; after writing a quick reply, I locked my phone screen and looked around — the smell of hops and malt from the beer kegs behind the bar immediately hit my nose; the place was opening in a few hours, so the electricity was off: There was no music playing and the TV was off; the wooden floor creaked under the weight of my heel, making me stop and look around at the leather chairs and round tables around the perimeter, the pool table in the middle, and I opened the first door on the left and went down the stairs.

The bar was not very popular with either the Mafia or ordinary Londoners, despite the amount of effort and money that had been put into it, but the business kept afloat and even paid off. Two security guards opened the iron door as soon as they saw me and let me in.

The place, often used for 'intelligence gathering', was disguised as a concrete warehouse — the shelves, crates of alcohol, mops and tools scattered around the corners matched this — but the basement had been renovated, creating a room with improved soundproofing, ventilation and a sewage system.

In the middle of the room, tied to a chair, sat a man. His face was completely disfigured, his skin was like a chopped-up steak, and there were several open wounds on his chest, oozing scarlet blood.

The man was breathing heavily and grunting with every movement, saliva dripping from his mouth in a long stream. I pulled back the collar of the jumper. A headache spread through my body, as if I'd received a severe blow to the back of my head with a heavy object. I had to stop at the table against the wall to cover my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.

"How's it going?" I asked, pulling a cigarette case out of my pocket. I'd changed and showered about an hour ago, but I still couldn't shake the feeling of my brother's sticky blood on my skin.

Vito looked tired. His skin was sweaty, strands of blonde hair stuck to his face, his unbuttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up stained, his chest heaving, and the man himself, dropping his heavy knuckles to the concrete floor, which hit with a metallic clang, began to wipe his hands of the blood.

"He told me about the company," Vito sucked in air noisily, swallowed and shook his head, "about a lot of things in general. But nothing about the owner or the client," he opened a bottle of water and began to gulp the liquid greedily, spilling a few drops on himself.

I took out a cigarette, tapped the tip several times on my thumb and then, clenching it between my teeth, lit it. The acrid smoke immediately lodged in my larynx and lungs, causing a stinging pain, but at the same time interrupting the nauseating metallic smell of blood, damp and urine. An unpleasant place that reflected the reality of the Mafia.

I stared at the mutilated man for a long moment, pulling in my cheeks and squinting, my heels clattering deafeningly on the floor as I approached him. Tilting my head towards the man, who looked more like a piece of meat smelling of iron, I blew cigarette smoke into his face, shaking the ash onto the open wound on his chest. The prisoner twitched, a tightly compressed moan escaping his lips as he tried to free himself from the straps holding him to the chair.

"Are you in pain?" I asked, feigning sympathy. Clamping my cigarette between my teeth and taking a few quick puffs, I raised my right hand to the man, pressing my thumb to the wound from which blood was oozing in a long stream down his cold skin. Vito tore off his dirty shirt in a tearing motion, wiped the sweat from his face and brought it up to his neck, pressing him against the back of the chair — so I could see his painful eyes. I couldn't make out a word of the many noises he was making.