I strolled around the basement of The Syndicate, holding a chef’s knife in my hand. Blood dripped from its edge onto the cobblestone floor as harmonic screams drifted through my ears.
“I’m going to ask you again,” I said, turning toward the man and placing the tip of my knife right over his heart. “And if you don’t answer me”—I trailed the knife down the center of his abdomen—“I’m going to finish taking those f*****g fingers of yours and then cut off your dick.”
Holding up the knife, I tilted my head and let him watch his own blood drip off its edges. “It won’t be a clean and easy cut with a knife like this. So, why don’t you open your f*****g mouth and tell me who snitched?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted.
Sighing through my nose, I grabbed his hand and chopped off one finger. He gargled
