Snapping Point

18.

"Step inside," the command came like a thunderclap, courtesy of Amato and Morelli in perfect sync as a knock resounded. The door groaned ajar, revealing Elsa in a navy blue dress and slippers. Very light makeup, too.

Recognition hit me then, that was a familiar sight, always trailing after Amato and his first son, Lorenzi. The puppet in some of their twisted affairs.

Her hair, a cascade of lush brown locks, meticulously tended. She was a lean figure, not my usual flavor, but undeniably attractive. Though, beauty often veiled deceit.

Swift as a shadow, she whisked past me, her face a portrait of perplexity and unease. In that split second, she positioned herself before Amato, dropping to her knees in a gesture of deference that left a sour taste in my mouth.

My dinner churned in revolt, threatening to make a reappearance. This madness eclipsed anything I'd seen in my three decades of existence. Familiar with the concept of a woman kneeling to please a man, or offer an apology, but to kneel merely for his acknowledgment? Sickening. Yet, who was I to preach?

Amato's visage hardened as he gazed down at her, coercing her face toward his groin, a sick mimicry of paternal affection. She, a woman in her prime, subjected to such debasement. As I said, he was the peak of obscenity.

After an agonizing pause, Amato released her, demanding a seat. Ottavio danced to his tune, but I remained rooted, repulsed to my core. With his throne secured, he stooped to Elsa, commanding her to meet his gaze.

Fear gripped the lady. It was similar to a vice tightening around her throat, palpable to all but ignored by the wicked audience. We hungered for her terror and also for the destination of Amato's machination.

"Sir..."

"You'll tell me the truth and nothing but that," he asserted, his voice a low growl. "And if I sense that you're keeping even the slightest detail from me, Ruscitto, one of them would crack your skull open while your eyes watch."

One of them meant Ottavio and me. I had every intention of acting, perhaps quicker than he anticipated.

Though her face eluded my sight, I could taste the tears in her voice as she complied, her words laden with anguish. "What do you want to know, sir?"

"Who owns that fucking bordello!" Amato's demand sliced through again.

Elsa scanned the room, her eyes darting between us, weighing her options: lie and face the wrath of Ottavio and me, or spill the truth and risk the wrath of whoever she sought to shield. But what she didn't know was, whatever her options were, death would be in the mix.

Turning back to Amato, she braced herself as he yanked her head forward. "We know very little about management, sir. Our madam only provides necessities—food, clothes, and a pittance of a stipend sporadically."

"Do not lecture me on management," he spat, wrenching on her luscious locks as her cries pierced the air. "I want to know what goes on there, not your sorry state."

"Yes. Yes...sir." Tremors shook her frame, tears mingling with the tremor in her voice, terror painting her screams as he manipulated her head with ruthless force.

"Have you been asked to spy on me?"

She tensed, silence engulfing the room. I bet it felt like a suffocating blanket.

"Answer the fucking question!" My voice surged with an unexpected intensity. "Who were you before the bordello?"

"We're not allowed to speak on our past with clients, sir." Her voice quivered as she lowered her gaze, a fleeting glance over her shoulder betraying her fear.