The man says nothing. He only stares at me, almost calm—like any of us who grew up accustomed to pain… initiated by it.
“What did the man who hired you offer? Money? Power?”
“You can kill me! I won’t say anything!”
“Look at that, Arturo! He talks! Seems you’re somebody’s little doll getting paid very well…” Before I can continue, my phone buzzes with a message.
[Unknown Number, 8:45 PM]:
Martino Arrigo. Parents alive. Turkish mother named Hayat Arrigo. Italian father also named Martino, and a fourteen-year-old son named Matteo. No wife. They are merchants and pay pizzo to us. Has a Turkish cousin in Italy named Sinam Bayan. Residence in Ferrara. Criminal record: imprisoned for drug trafficking in Bologna.
“Cézar! Send someone in Ferrara to that address,” I order, dispatching soldiers
