by A. Zavarelli
Contents
Disclaimer
1. Alessio
2. Alessio
3. Natalia
4. Natalia
5. Natalia
6. Alessio
7. Natalia
8. Alessio
9. Natalia
10. Natalia
11. Natalia
12. Natalia
13. Alessio
14. Natalia
15. Natalia
16. Alessio
17. Alessio
18. Alessio
19. Natalia
20. Alessio
21. Alessio
22. Alessio
23. Alessio
24. Alessio
25. Natalia
26. Alessio
27. Alessio
28. Natalia
29. Natalia
30. Alessio
31. Natalia
32. Alessio
33. Alessio
34. Alessio
35. Natalia
36. Natalia
37. Natalia
Epilogue
BOOKS by A. ZAVARELLI
About the Author
KINGDOM FALL © 2021 A. Zavarelli
Cover Design: Cormar Covers
Cover Photo: Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograph
Editing: Aria J.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
1
Alessio
The Rolls Royce pulls to a stop in front of Butcher and Son, and Luca meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Would you like me to wait, Mr. Scarcello?”
“No.” I reach for the door handle. “I’ll call for you when I’m ready to return to the city.”
He bows his head and waits for me to exit the vehicle before quietly rolling away. I glance at my phone briefly to note the time before the door to the abandoned slaughterhouse opens, and one of Marchesi’s men gestures me inside.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Scarcello,” he says. “Mr. Marchesi is waiting for you in the back.”
I nod in response and head for my intended business. My visit to New York will not be a lengthy one, and I’m eager to get it over with, so I can return to my obligations at home.
Behind the aged plastic door curtain, I find Marchesi sipping from a mug of coffee at one of the old butcher tables while he reads the paper. He glances up, startling slightly at my presence.
“Goddamn, we need to put a bell on you, Scarcello.” He chuckles. “You always manage to scare the shit out of me.”
I don’t reply. It’s something I’ve heard many times before, and why it should surprise him that I move quietly, I have no idea. It’s to my benefit, and knowing my occupation and reputation, he should expect nothing less.
“It’s good to see you again.” He removes a white envelope from his pocket and slides it across the table to me. “The Ruin appreciates you making the trip to Desolation to assist us with this case.”
“It’s not a problem,” I answer curtly, sliding the envelope into my jacket pocket. This isn’t my first song and dance with the underground network in New York. Some call them a mafia outfit. Some just call them criminals. I don’t call them anything except clients. They aren’t affiliated with The Society, so we are nothing more than associates.
“There’s half up front,” he tells me. “I’ll be around when you finish for final payment. Just come find me. The client is in the freezer.”
I nod and leave him to his coffee while I slip into the back where the old freezers have been left to collect dust. It’s not my first visit to Butcher and Son, and I doubt it will be the last. Though I have no affiliation with The Ruin itself, they often contract my services when their more primitive methods fail to gather the intel they need, or the target is a trickier subject that requires discretion. Today, I have traveled to Desolation, New York, to extract information from a man I don’t know, one I don’t care to know. To me, he is just a number. He is a job to complete. I always complete my assignments, no matter how gruesome the task might be. They call me The Debt Collector for a reason. I never walk away from a target without payment, be it flesh or information.
The freezer door creaks open under the weight of my grip, and the musty odor of dust combines with the permanent decay of blood. This is why they bring the clients here. Time does not erode that smell or the stains on the floor. It foreshadows what’s to come, and it does a number on the human psyche to wait in such conditions, uncertain of the outcome.
I lock eyes with the man bound and hanging by his wrists from a butcher’s hook. He looks to be in his late forties with thinning hair and a pot belly. He’s wearing a yellow fishing shirt and khaki pants that are already stained with his piss. He reeks of desperation as his gaze meets mine, and he attempts to mumble something through the cloth gag in his mouth, but I have no interest in hearing anything just yet.
I waste no time setting down my medical bag and removing my suit jacket, hanging it onto one of the empty hooks. While he groans out muffled fragments of sentences, I roll up my sleeves and slip on some latex gloves. Then I unravel my tool kit, laying it out on one of the shelves before making my first selection, a filet knife.
I always start with primitive torture first. It’s not an endgame. It’s a warmup. From experience, I have learned that psychological torture wins every time. First, you have to bloody them up and exhaust them by depleting their adrenaline response. The crash will always tip the results in my favor. Despite what many of my contractors like to believe, I don’t possess any special talent, and this isn’t an art form. I simply understand the laws of human nature.
“I’m here to extract the information you’ve been withholding,” I begin calmly. “And I want to be clear, when you meet with me, you only have two options left. This is a simple exchange of blood and flesh. You will give me what I require, or you will die a slow, brutal death. Do you understand?”
He starts to squirm in his restraints, moaning again, pleading with words I don’t care to understand.
“I’m not big on socializing,” I tell him. “So, if you decide you’re ready to admit the truth, I want you to tap your foot on the floor three times, but only when you’re truly willing.” I hold the knife up to his throat. “If you lie to me or waste my time, I guarantee the price will be more than you are able to pay.”
He falls completely still, and I return the knife to my tool kit, retrieving the plastic case of carbon steel hooks.
“I hear you’re a fan of fishing.” I pluck a hook from the case and examine it between my fingers. “You’ve probably filleted quite a number of them, I would imagine. I’m curious, though, if you keep them all for yourself, or do you prefer to catch and release?”
He mumbles a response, and when I turn around again, sweat is beading on his brow. He’s renewed his fight against the restraints, straining his arms and his legs as I approach.
“I’m not big on fish myself,” I confess as I grab his face and poke the barbed point against his cheek. “I think perhaps it’s the texture or the smell. It doesn’t appeal to me.”
He screeches as the hook pierces his flesh, his nostrils flaring as blood drips down his neck. His muffled pleas resume, but he hasn’t reached a point of desperation to tap out. It’s human nature to want to believe our love and loyalty for our family will
outweigh any adversity, but I know intimately that this is simply not true. Soon, he will understand there is nothing to be gained by trying to prevent his brother’s fate.
I continue my task, spearing him with a fistful of hooks, decorating his cheeks like a tacky Christmas ornament. After about two minutes, I suspect his adrenaline is primed, and he’s not feeling the same rush of fear as he did initially, so it’s time to move on. I discard the hooks and reach for the filet knife once again.
“Death by a thousand cuts,” I murmur, examining my reflection in the shiny blade. “I don’t know that it’s the worst way to die, but I think it might be the most poetic.”
More sniffling, begging, and tears ensue as I proceed to carve him up like a pumpkin, slicing off bits of flesh and tossing them to the floor like meat scraps. I take chunks from his arms and move on to his back, cutting through the shirt to gain access. He vomits five minutes in and then passes out. I take the opportunity to adjust his position for the next phase. Tying the rope around his wrists, I loop it through the ceiling hook and use the pre-existing pulley system to leverage his weight.
As I’m considering rousing him for the sake of efficiency, my phone rings, and I glance at the screen in frustration, only to see Gwen’s name on the display. I step out of the freezer for a moment, shutting the door behind me.
“Gwen,” I answer. “Is everything alright?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she replies. “It’s been so nice to visit with Nino. We’ve been having such a lovely time together. I do wish I could spend more time with him like this.”
“You know you are free to visit us anytime.” I stare at a cockroach scuttling across the floor, my gaze unfocused.
“I know.” Gwen sniffs. “It’s just … I’m always so sad when I have to leave him.”
Silence lingers as she leaves her thoughts to settle over us. This discussion has been had, and she’s well aware the circumstances won’t change, yet she persists with this topic relentlessly. I won’t remind her that her mental health isn’t up for the challenge, and that it was already with some uncertainty that I’ve even allowed her to look after him during these short trips away. This arrangement has gone on for too long, and as much as she might dislike it, Nino needs the stability of a new live-in caretaker who can be there with him when I am not.
“Marianna has been here helping me.” Gwen lightens her tone, taking on a wistful note. “She is so good with him.”
My fingers stiffen at the mention of her name. “Please thank her for taking time out of her schedule to be there.”
“I’m sure she’d love to hear it from you,” Gwen says. “She adores both of you. And, of course, Nino soaks up the attention. He really does need a mother figure in his life, and I truly wish you would reconsider allowing her to help you.”
I close my eyes and release a quiet breath of frustration. “Is this why you called?”
“Yes,” she confesses. “I know you’re planning to conduct interviews this afternoon, but I must insist you reflect on the impact of hiring outside The Society. I don’t think you’ve fully considered the consequences this could have.”
“I have considered them,” I respond bluntly. “But it doesn’t alter my opinion on the subject.”
“What if this nanny you hire sees something she shouldn’t?” Gwen asks. “Then what? Are you going to get rid of her?”
Her question is a trap. She knows how I feel about killing women, and she’s leveraging that to make her case.
“She won’t see anything she shouldn’t,” I tell her.
“But if she does?”
“If she does, then I will do what’s necessary. I always do.”
“Why even risk it?” Gwen asks. “Nino already knows Marianna. She can give him the sort of love and comfort only a mother can provide. He won’t get that from an outsider. They don’t understand our ways.”
“I’m not hiring someone to be his mother. I’m hiring someone to look after him when I can’t.”
“But Marianna—”
“Marianna has her own motives,” I grit out.
We have exhausted this conversation already. Gwen is not my mother, but she’s the closest thing I have to one, and she believes it is her duty to look after me. In her efforts to do so, she continues to push Marianna in my direction, hoping I will eventually see her as a wife for myself and a mother for Nino. She still believes I can be converted to the idea of having a family of my own, regardless of how many times I have told her I will not.
“Alessio.” Gwen softens her voice. “Please, take it from someone who knows. Family is all we have in this world. You can’t be alone forever. I truly believe if you’d just give her a chance, you would see there is so much more to life. It would be for your benefit, but more importantly, it would mean the world to Nino.”
“I have to go,” I clip out. “My work is waiting for me.”
“Please just consider it,” she begs. “That’s all I ask.”
“I will check in later this evening. Goodbye, Gwen.”
I disconnect the line and silence my phone, returning it to my pocket. There’s a renewed sense of uncertainty in my gut when I open the door and find the client waiting for me. He’s bloody, sweaty, and quietly begging for what I’m certain is mercy.
I approach him and remove the gag, staring at him curiously. “You’re a father.”
When he doesn’t reply, I supply the necessary answer for him as I start to pace. “Two children. Ages seven and ten. A girl named Molly and a boy named Maxwell. All things considered, I must ask, do you feel you are doing what’s best for them right now? Sacrificing yourself to protect your brother? And for how long? Surely, you must know he can’t hide forever. The Ruin will find him, whether you die to protect him or not. And then where will your children be?”
He dips his head and begins to sob as I continue my theoretical exploration. “Your wife would be left alone to protect them. To provide for them on a single income. From your file, I can see that she hasn’t worked since the first child was born. I imagine it would be a difficult transition for all of them. But tell me, do you suppose it would be better to have half a mother who is exhausted from her circumstances? Or would it serve them better to have you, the father who provides the structure they have always known? Do you think children need the softness of a woman in their life? Or will they thrive under any adversity, given the right support?”
“I don’t know,” he shouts. “Please, I don’t know.”
I consider the questions and shrug. I already know the answer to them, of course. I lost my mother when I was ten and look how that turned out for me. When I arrived here this morning, I was convinced I could find the right candidate with the qualities I needed to look after Nino. Now, I am less certain than ever. Perhaps, Gwen has a point. He does know Marianna, yet I am still unwilling to believe she’s not driven by her desire to marry a Sovereign Son rather than her affection for Nino.
Regardless, the interviews have already been scheduled, and I will follow through with them. Now I have to consider that Gwen could be correct in her prediction about the disastrous results. If an outsider doesn’t work out, if they fail to be trustworthy, the only feasible option would be to eliminate them. It’s a big risk, one The Society would not understand me taking. But the members who have volunteered their services have already made what they want abundantly clear, and I am not in search of a package deal. I don’t need a wife and a nanny. I simply need someone to keep Nino on track in the ways I cannot. Someone who can provide the qualities I lack and the empathy to maintain his humanity.
“What are you going to do to them?” the client asks, interrupting my thoughts. “They have nothing to do with this. They know nothing.”
“It’s not my decision to make,” I inform him. “You will have to take that up with The Ruin, should you choose to come clean.”
He breaks down again as I walk around to the pulley and start to crank the lever, hoisting his body into the air.
“This is a version of the Strappado,” I explain it as if I’m a tour guide who’s bored with the whole routine. “You may have heard of it. I will warn you, it won’t be pleasant, and you no longer have the ability to tap your foot. I’ll give you a safe word, should you change your mind. Do you have a preference?”
He cries out in pain as his elbows start to hyperextend backward, his bodyweight dipping forward from the force of gravity.
“How about Molly?” I suggest. “Surely, you can remember that.”
“Please,” he whimpers. “Please.”
The pulley strains against his weight, and it’s a test of my endurance as I turn the crank and pull the rope up by his wrists. I have the stomach for most things, but even I can admit this is a rather gruesome sight. I focus on his feet until I hear the telltale snap of his shoulders dislocating, followed by his screams of sheer agony.
One glance at his arms hanging like useless meat sacks from the hook sours my breakfast, and I’m already considering the next phase when he surprises me.
“Molly! Molly! Molly! Let me down. Please. I’ll tell you fucking anything. Oh God, motherfuck. I’m going to die. I’m going to fucking die.”
“That’s a bit dramatic.” I lower him to the floor and stare at him, waiting impatiently. “Spit it out then.”
“He’s in Miami,” he pants, delirious from the pain. “The address is in my phone, under Pizza Hut. He’s leaving in two days to try to stash the rest of the money in the Bahamas.”
