Nanny for the Don: Chapter 20

I’m standing outside the door to the storage room. I’m focused. Inside, Sal’s doing his thing, giving the poor shithead the introductory round of persuasion.

We’ve perfected the routine over the years—Sal comes in swinging, softening them up, and then I step in, giving them a final chance to talk before I get creative.

The room’s completely soundproof, so I can’t hear a damn thing from where I’m standing, but I know the drill. The only sounds in my head are the ticking of the clock and the low hum of adrenaline, sharpening my senses. This is business, pure and simple.

Finally, the door swings open, and Sal steps out, wiping blood off his knuckles with a rag. His face is set in a grim line. “Fucker’s not talking,” he says., frustration seeping into his voice. “If I work his face over any more, his jaw’s gonna be too busted to use.”

I nod, the cold calculation settling in. This is my cue. Sal’s done his part, and now it’s my turn to finish the job. I crack my knuckles, the familiar anticipation buzzing through me.

“Leave it to me,” I say, my tone steady, controlled. .”

Sal steps aside, giving me a look that says he knows exactly what’s coming next. I push the door open, ready to make this bastard talk.

Sal nods toward the stairs. “I’m gonna wash up, make a few calls to the other lieutenants.”

I give him a quick nod, watching as he heads out. I turn back to the door, taking a moment to steel myself before stepping inside. The door shuts behind me with a heavy click, sealing us off from the outside world.

The room is our little slice of hell, and I’m about to drag this poor bastard right into the middle of it.

The man in the chair is slumped over, breathing hard, his face a bloody mess.

“Welcome to my little workshop,” I say, my voice low and almost friendly as I circle him. “You’re probably noticing a few things about this room. For starters, it’s soundproof—no one’s going to hear a thing, no matter how loud you scream.”

I let the words sink in, watching as the man’s eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings. “Those doors are solid steel, thick enough to keep anyone out—or in. We’ve got security cameras rolling, so every single moment gets captured. And that drain over there in the corner?” I nod toward it, my smile widening. “That’s for easy cleaning when things get messy.”

I pause, leaning in close. “So, let’s get started, shall we?”

I step closer to the man, sizing him up. He’s in his thirties, longish hair matted with sweat and streaked with blood. His once-fancy suit is now a mess, covered in scuffs and splatters, the kind of designer outfit that screams money and status. His fingers are adorned with expensive rings, and there’s a flashy watch on his wrist. None of that impresses me.

What catches my attention is the sheer terror in his eyes.

I look him up and down, taking my time. “You know, ” I start, my voice calm, almost conversational, “you don’t strike me as a killer. You’re too prissy.” I lean in closer. “, making sure he knows I see right through him. “You’re just a spoiled little shit who’s in way over his head.”

He squirms in the chair, his eyes wide as he tries to scream through the gag. The bindings are tight, cutting into his skin, and he’s trembling so hard I’m half-expecting him to piss his pants any second now.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” I say, my tone dropping an octave. “You’re going to give me the information I need. Whether you leave here with all your limbs and fingers intact? That’s up to you.”

His panic intensifies, his muffled screams growing louder. I watch him struggle, a pathetic sight, really.

“I’m going to remove your gag now,” I continue, my voice steady, “and when I do, I expect you to start talking.”

I reach out and yank the gag off, and the man immediately lets out a blood-curdling scream. Without missing a beat, I backhand him hard across the face, the sound of the slap echoing in the room. The scream dies in his throat, replaced by a whimper as he looks up at me with fear-filled eyes.

“Now, ,” I say, my voice cold and commanding. “Let’s try that again. Talk.”

The guy coughs and sputters, looking up at me. “I don’t know anything about your goddamn dad.”

I nod slowly, letting his words hang in the air for a moment. Then, without warning, I rush forward and grab him by his long hair, yanking it back hard. His head snaps back, and he lets out a strained yell of pain.

“You’re in my house now,” I growl, my voice low and menacing. “And while you’re here, you’re going to speak to me with a little more respect. You’ll call me Mr. Conti, and you’ll keep that tone of yours in check.”

He groans, his face contorted in agony, but he stays silent. I keep my grip on his hair, making sure he understands just how serious I am. “Remember what I said about your limbs and fingers,” I continue. “You’d do well to keep that in mind.”

I release him, and he slumps back in the chair, breathing heavily. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his ragged breaths filling the room. Finally, he speaks, his voice trembling. “I didn’t kill your father.”

I clear my throat, a warning in the sound. His eyes flicker with fear, and he quickly corrects himself. “I didn’t kill your father, Mr. Conti.”

I nod slowly, my expression unreadable. “Good. Now, what’s your name?”

“Jack,” he answers, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Alright, Jack,” I say, my tone still commanding. “Let’s see if you’ve got anything else worth telling me.”

Jack’s eyes dart around, desperate. “I don’t know anything.”, he stammers, but I can see through the lie.

I step closer. “You’re bullshitting me. I know you’ve got some information—don’t bother trying to deny it. I can tell.”

Jack’s eyes widen in fear. , but he sticks to his story. “You’re wrong,” he insists, but the tremor in his voice betrays him..”

Without another word, I walk slowly over to the wall of the room, my steps measured. There’s a barely noticeable compartment there, one only I know how to open. I press on it, revealing a hidden set of surgical implements. The sight of them makes Jack’s breath hitch, and he starts to struggle against his restraints, but it’s no use.

I run my fingers over the tools, letting the moment drag out. “You know, it’s such a cliché for men like me to use their fists, to hack off fingers, to break kneecaps,” I say, my tone conversational. “And honestly, it’s inefficient. People pass out from the pain before they spill a word.”

I glance back at Jack, and his eyes are locked on the array of gleaming instruments, his terror palpable. I grin, picking up a small scalpel from the rack, turning it over in my hand. “Over the years, I’ve learned to be a little more… precise with my interrogation techniques.”

I step closer, holding the scalpel up for him to see. The sharp edge catches the light, glinting ominously. “Now, Jack,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Let’s see if this doesn’t jog your memory.”

I move, yanking Jack’s hair back again and pressing the tip of the scalpel against his throat. Just enough to draw a bead of blood, a tiny red dot that stands out against his pale skin. “Talk,” I growl, my voice cold and lethal.

Jack’s eyes widen, but he surprises me. “Or what?” he spits back, his voice trembling but defiant. “You’ll cut my throat? You’ll get nothing that way.”

I’m taken aback for a split second. The guy looked soft, like he’d crumble the moment things got real. But now, with a blade at his throat, he’s showing some spine. There’s clearly more to him than meets the eye.

And he’s not wrong—this guy is our first real lead, and if I end him now, we’re back to square one.

I let him go, releasing my grip on his hair and stepping back. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, the small cut on his throat starting to trickle blood down to his collar. I return to the rack of medical implements, my mind racing. The scalpel feels too final, too crude for what I need right now.

I set it aside, letting my eyes roam over the array of tools, thinking about my next move. One way or another, I’m going to get the information I need out of him. Whether it’s through fear, pain, or something else entirely, this guy is going to talk. It’s just a matter of time.

A grin spreads across my face as my eyes land on just the right tool—a wireless, electric bone saw. I take it from its place, turning toward Jack and revving it up, the blade spinning with a high-pitched whir. The sound alone is enough to send chills down anyone’s spine, and I make sure Jack gets a good look at it.

“You know what this is?” I ask, my voice calm, almost casual. “It’s a bone saw. Incredibly efficient at doing what it needs to do. Sure, smashing fingers with a mallet gets the job done, but this? This is cleaner. Faster.”

Jack’s trying to keep it together, but I can see the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his eyes widen with fear, the early brief flash of defiance gone. He’s on the edge of breaking.

I step closer, the saw buzzing in my hand. “We’ll start small,” I say, my tone almost reassuring, like I’m doing him a favor.. “ Just your pinky.”

Before he can protest, I grab his hand and tie it down onto the arm of the chair, making sure he can’t move. The saw hums as I press the blade against his finger, just enough to let him feel the cold metal..

Jack’s composure shatters. He squeals, thrashing against his restraints, yelling.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” over and over, desperation lacing his voice.

I pause, my finger hovering over the trigger. “Who killed my father?” I ask, my voice deadly serious.

He’s trembling, his voice shaking as he finally cracks. “I’ve heard a couple of names,” he stammers..”

“Good,” I say, pulling the saw back slightly. “What names?”

“Antonio and Marco Rossi,” Jack says.

I know the names. They’re low-level guys in the Rossi crime family, the kind of bottom feeders who handle small-time jobs, not something as big as taking out my father and his associates. This smells like bullshit.

“That’s all I know,”.” Jack insists, desperation creeping into his voice.

I narrow my eyes at him, considering my next move.. “Was the hit on my father and his men ordered by the Rossis?”

Jack clams up, refusing to answer, his eyes darting away. Without hesitation, I calmly punch him in the mouth, the force snapping his head back. He groans in pain, blood trickling from his split lip as he struggles to refocus.

When he finally does, I ask again, “What’s your relationship to the Rossis?”

Jack spits out some blood, grimacing. “I’m a numbers guy.”

“You mean a money launderer,” I correct, my tone icy..”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jack mutters, clearly realizing there’s no point in lying..”

I lean in close, grinning as I let the next question roll off my tongue. “Tell me, Jack, is that a job you can do without your fingers?”

Jack’s eyes widen with terror, and he screams, the sound echoing in the cold, sterile room.