"She's still not talking boss," Dom says tiredly.
We've been here for hours, getting no real leeway.
"Drive another nail through her arm," I order tonelessly.
That's sixty-two nails already. I'm spending more money on nails to drive into her various limbs than I'm getting information.
It's tiring, expensive, and just fucking rude.
And how I despise rude people. With a heavy groan, I stretch my aching muscles, standing up.
The cameras reflect the same image they have for hours; a woman with a smirk and nails driven into her body.
Sick of watching from the security room, I head to the interrogation room.
This woman reminds me of my wife. Not physically, but in her mannerisms.
Her smirk, her nonchalant attitude towards excruciating pain.
I slam the door, an old interrogation technique. I figured correctly, it wouldn't provocate a reaction.
She merely raised her eyes and appraised me with amusement.
"What's up, cuz?"
"You here to finish me off, sweetheart?" I taunt with a smirk, knowing that's exactly why she's here.
"Actually... No," She quips as if she weren't nailed to a wooden chair by her flesh.
"Then why are you here?"
This seems to be the wrong question because her smirk grows smug, and she leans into her restraints.
"She'll be here soon," As if on cue, a sweet, lethally low voice orders the room be cleared.
Like the Red Sea, my men part at her command and vacate.
"Двоюродная сестра!" She quips cheerfully.
Is there any language she doesn't speak?
With equal enthusiasm, the woman in my torture chair returns her greeting.
"How have you been?"
Delphine shrugs, not once glancing at me.
"Okay. I got married."
"I was told."
She grins at her cousin. "Care to remove me from your lovely furniture?"
Chuckling, Delphine rips the bloody nails out of her cousin's arms and legs with her bare hands; neither of them flinching.
It was truly disturbing.
"That's gonna be a pain in the ass to stitch."
"What happened, CiVi?"
"Petrov is getting antsy and frankly, so am I,"
Now, she sounded irritated.
"I want a fuckin bullet lodged in his skull Delphie, and I want it now—!"
At this point, I'm getting irritated at the lack of acknowledgment. I mean, I'm right here!
"Hello, dear wife! Nice to see you, too!" I drawl sarcastically.
For the first time she got here, Delphine glances my way.
Automatically, her body starts toward me, and my arms grab her as soon as she's in reaching distance.
She leans up and kisses me briefly, almost absently.
I return, nearly sinking into her. I love her kisses. Her lips are so soft and sweet, so addicting.
"Hello!?" Prying her lips from mine, Delphine turns her back to me, leaning against my chest.
I wrap arms around her middle, my thumbs caressing her belly.
"Sorry," Delphine says with no remorse, "Look, cousin, here's this deal: Sophie and Izzy are working the entire left field, and no one is finding anything—."
"But nothing!" She says sternly. "Until you can get Petrov to tell you where my sister's child is, you cannot kill him."
The man I interrogated a few weeks ago comes to mind.
She believes that child is alive...?
"You still believe that child is alive?!"
"Until such time as it is confirmed that he isn't, I won't stop looking for him. And if Petrov turns up dead..."
Delphine shrugs, "Вы будете следовать."
The woman glared but says nothing as she stealthily disappears from the room.
"Do not cross me CiVeena," she says softly to herself. "Please don't."
Without uttering another word, she shakes herself from my grasp and leaves the way she came.
It is then that I realize that both my prisoner and my wife have left this room, and neither asked for permission.
When night falls, I kiss our son good night at Delphine's insistence and head up to bed.
My eye close, and I immediately regret the choice I made. I should've never went to sleep.
I glance around me, trying to make sense of the scene. I saw it all happen, looked in her eyes as it all transpired.
Still, it simply didn't add up. The numbers were right, so was the answer, but my brain refused to compute it.
I stood in a pool of my mother's blood, the thick liquid nearly covering my bare feet. Her blank gaze was trained on me, seeing nothing.
For the life of me, I could not accept she was dead. Even as her body lay in one place and her head in another.
Even as I watched him do it.
I couldn't accept it.
My body stood on high alert, feeling his approach.
As if we were looking out at a serene lake instead of my mothers decapitated corpse, he lay his bloody hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
"Non fidarti mai di una puttana, figlio. Sono solo buone per due cose: Cazzo," he chuckled, kicking my mothers head, "o uccidere."
Then, having destroyed me, he happily took his leave.
From then on, four things stuck with me:
Ironically, a deep respect for women.
Naturally, a deep hatred or my father.
And a loathing of the color red, and my native tongue.
I would never speak more than three words in Italian until my wife came along.
I shot up, body on overdrive. I felt her body, sticky against my skin, marring me with guilt.
Blindly, I stumbled into my wife's room, picked her up, took her to my room and made love to her.
I made love to her until I washed out the guilt and dirtiness; the redness that covered my room.
Then, I snuggled into her arms, laying my cheek on her naked breasts and let her cleanse the room while we slept.