Angelo was being dragged through the basement. A few hours had gone by since he saw Jose, and he was hungry, but that was the least of his worries. Right now, two very large men were yanking him through the halls, the stone as black as soot. Anger boiled in his gut, hating that they wouldn't let him walk on his own, but they were practically holding him off the ground. Every time his feet touched, they were left dragging before he could stand, and then lifted again faster than he could catch his feet below him.
Now he was in a room he didn't recognise, but he recognised the person in it. Nice tailored suit, plump round form, and angry brown eyes. Angrier than he had seen him in a long time. Lorenzo Kuron, the Don, his father, was more pissed than he could imagine.
Angelo was dropped on the floor as soon as the Don waved his hand, like a sack of potatoes. He let out a wordless puff of air as he hit the ground, wincing. He took a moment to glance around the room while he got the chance – no doors, just the one he came in. A table with a chair, but leather cuffs were connected to the table. He didn't want to think about what they needed his hands cuffed to a table for.
"Human cargo."
The words spilled form the Don's mouth like venom, part of a sequence that would tear Angelo to shreds. He knew it was coming, but he didn't want it to. He said he could take the punishment, but seeing that table, those cuffs… it scared him. What were they going to do to him?
"Do you know how much that shipment cost?"
Lorenzo stepped towards him, and Angelo couldn't help but move back, expecting some kind of attack. Like a kick to the face, or at least to shove him over. He didn't remember being this scared before, even when he heard his mother die and those footsteps stop after he cried. This time, he also didn't know what was coming – but he definitely knew it was bad.
"But you don't care, do you?" The Don sighed. "Except, that's the problem – you do care. About people who are weaker than you. That's the difference, that's what I need to change."
He crouched down, and Angelo didn't look at him. "Six of them were lost… I almost wanted to cut six of your fingers off to make up for it, but then you would be useless. I still need you, I guess. You are my only son."
He stood up, and reached out with his foot. Angelo flinched away again, sucking in a breath, but Lorenzo shoved his foot underneath Angelo's chin and forced him to tilt his head. Angelo winced, and he closed his eyes in pain from the strain.
"You didn't change anything." Lorenzo scowled. "I want you to know that. We will find them, and thanks to you, they won't breathe anymore."
He dropped his chin, and Angelo gasped. It was hard to breathe in that position. "So remember… you didn't change a single damn thing except my schedule."
Lorenzo turned away. "Break his ribs."
Angelo was grabbed before he could think to fight back. A fist pelted into his stomach, and he coughed, pain erupting through his body. He tried to kick away the attacker, but another hit landed right in his ribs. He heard a crack, felt spiking burning pain behind his eyes. He gasped, and he was thrown to the wall, kicked in the stomach again and again. A second sharp crunch by the third, and he felt like he swallowed needles.
One of them grabbed him by the hair, yanking and throwing him to the ground. He spasmed, then curled, trying to cover his stomach, afraid for more hits. It felt like broken glass was his ribs, burning and tearing and making it hard to breathe. No more hits came, because the Don had raised a hand. He hated how the power over pain was controllable just by a lift of his stupid finger.
"Take his hands." The Don said, and Angelo felt fear climb. "Sew his thumbs together. He needs to remember who owns his voice."
Panic dwindled down, but barely. His hands would still be usable – at least, after the stitches were removed. He flinched as they reached for him, lifted him up like he was just a little kid from a closet. Pain built behind every crevice of his body, and he was dragged to the chair. They shoved him in, wrapped leather restraints around his ankles. He tried to kick, make it harder, but it was mostly instinct trying to prevail his hide. Despite it all, he knew it was useless.
One of them took his hands, cut the bindings. He started to fight back immediately, grabbing the man's shirt and slamming his head off the table. While the other grabbed one arm, he took the other man's knife and lashed out, cutting the one who held him on the cheek. However, he was still bound to a chair – he just wanted to make it harder to break him.
The man who wasn't cut grabbed him by the neck, choking him as he disarmed him. Angelo grit his teeth, the choking not subsiding until the other man had ahold of his hands and had them both in the bindings. He was finally released, gasping and coughing, wheezing as they had his hands bound. He tried to pull, but his eyes were blurry, black spots in his vision. There was barely the capacity to see the large needle and thick thread pulled out. The kind used on animal hides… like Angelo was an animal that was getting ready for processing after being hunted.
They held his hands flat as he kept wiggled, and he finally gave up, panting. He watched as they threaded the needle, felt the pain before it even came. The sharp sting of the needle, the burn of the thread through his skin. However, when it came, it was so much worse.
Pressing the needle into his hand where the thumb was, he had a halting breath. Fear strung up inside his chest like an effigy, the blood pouring on the table like painting a canvas. The needle was clean, but that didn't help the pain… Angelo could set his hands on fire, but he couldn't focus through the agony.
The thread pulled through his skin uneven, jerking uncomfortably and burning the entire way. Then another press into his other hand, and he bit his tongue, holding back a cry. He felt the tears stream from his eyes, but he refused to scream. The worst he let out was a squeak, and that was more like air escaping through his teeth. At least, that's what he hoped it was mistaken for.
"One stitch for each lost." The Don said.
Six stitches. Each one made him squirm, twitch, and bite his tongue until it bled. He was shaking by the end of it, but he hadn't made a noise. The Don watched with cold efficiency, apparently satisfied enough by his pain that he didn't order more torture. He just waved his hands dismissively at the men as the one cut the last stitch, and the unbuckled Angelo from the chair. He didn't bother fighting back this time – he hurt too much to bother.
The dragged him back through the halls and to the old wine cellar without a word from his father. Shoved in, he collapsed, and curled into a ball after they closed the door and locked it. He barely had the energy to scoot his way to the back corner, for optimal protection, and curled up in a ball. Tears fell from his eyes, but he didn't make a noise. He would never make a noise again.