Chapter 2: Torrino's Collection
Vincent Torrino adjusted his gold watch and smiled at the sound of breaking bones.
The basement of Torrino's Authentic Italian Restaurant smelled like garlic, wine, and fresh blood—a combination that always made Vincent nostalgic for the old country, even though he'd been born in Newark. The restaurant upstairs served decent food to honest people who kept their mouths shut and paid their tabs. Down here, in the soundproofed cellar his grandfather had built during Prohibition, Vincent served a different kind of meal.
"Please," Marcus Chen whimpered through his shattered teeth. "I just need another week. The insurance money, it's coming, I swear—"
"Insurance money." Vincent rolled the words around his mouth like a fine wine. "You know what I love about insurance, Marcus? It's all about risk assessment. And right now, you're looking like a very high-risk investment."
Marcus was strapped to a dentist's chair Vincent had "borrowed" from a client who'd defaulted three months ago. Dr. Petrov had been quite the artist with his instruments before Vincent had fed him to the harbor. The chair was vintage, solid construction, and had excellent restraint capabilities. Vincent appreciated quality craftsmanship.
He selected a pair of needle-nose pliers from the surgical tray beside the chair. The metal gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, spotless and eager.
"Now, let's talk mathematics," Vincent said, positioning the pliers around Marcus's left pinky finger. "You borrowed eight thousand. With interest and penalties, you now owe me fourteen thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven dollars. That's a lot of money for a man whose restaurant just burned down."
"It wasn't my fault!" Marcus sobbed. "You said if I paid the protection money—"
Vincent squeezed. The finger broke with a sound like a branch snapping in winter. Marcus's scream echoed off the stone walls, joining the symphony of suffering that had played in this basement for three generations.
"I said a lot of things," Vincent replied, moving to the ring finger. "What I'm saying now is that you have forty-eight hours to come up with my money, or I start collecting in other ways."
He gestured to the video camera mounted in the corner, its red light blinking like a mechanical eye. Vincent had learned the power of documentation from his father, who'd learned it from his father. Fear was good, but recorded fear was a commodity that could be traded, sold, or leveraged for decades.
"My daughter," Marcus whispered. "She's only sixteen. Please, don't—"
"Don't what?" Vincent's voice carried the mock innocence of a child pulling wings off flies. "Don't document her contribution to your debt? Marcus, Marcus, Marcus. You're thinking like a victim instead of an entrepreneur. Your daughter is an asset. A very valuable asset, once we get her trained properly."
He leaned closer, his breath warm against Marcus's ear. "I have clients who pay premium rates for young talent. Especially the exotic types. Your little Amy, she's got that whole innocent schoolgirl thing going, doesn't she? Very marketable."
Vincent straightened up and selected a different tool from the tray—a small, curved blade that Dr. Petrov had used for more delicate work. He tested its edge against his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Here's how this works," he continued, dabbing the blood on Marcus's forehead like a blessing. "You have two days to bring me my money. If you can't, then Amy starts working for me. Don't worry—I'll take good care of her. Feed her regularly, make sure she gets her Vitamins. Can't have the merchandise getting too thin."
Marcus thrashed against the restraints, his face purple with rage and terror. "You sick bastard! I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!"
Vincent laughed, a sound like champagne glasses breaking. "With what? Your restaurant's ashes? Your empty bank account? Your broken fingers?" He grabbed Marcus's chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. "You're nothing, Marcus. Less than nothing. You're a cautionary tale I'm going to tell to other clients when they get ideas about standing up to me."
He stepped back and nodded to Tony Ricci, his favorite enforcer. Tony was built like a refrigerator with anger management issues, and he approached Marcus with the enthusiasm of a kid opening Christmas presents.
"Tony's going to escort you home," Vincent said, cleaning the blood from his blade with a monogrammed handkerchief. "Make sure you understand the terms of our agreement. And Marcus? If you're thinking about running, don't. I have friends in a lot of places. Some of them wear badges."
As Tony began untying Marcus from the chair, Vincent's phone buzzed. A text message from Detective Ray Morrison—Judge Morrison's nephew and Vincent's favorite pet on the GCPD payroll.
*Chen complaint filed. Will be lost in paperwork. Usual rate?*
Vincent typed back: *Double rate. He's being difficult.*
The beauty of Gotham was its ecosystem. Everyone fed off everyone else, from the bottom-feeders in the projects to the apex predators in city hall. Vincent had spent fifteen years cultivating his web, placing the right people in the right positions, learning which palms needed greasing and which throats needed cutting.
Judge Morrison dismissed cases. Detective Morrison lost evidence. Commissioner Thorne looked the other way. District Attorney Price found procedural errors. It was a symphony of corruption, and Vincent was its conductor.
His phone rang. Unknown number, but Vincent recognized the pattern—three rings, hang up, call back. One of his street assets.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. Torrino? It's Danny. I got something you need to hear."
Danny Kowalski was a junkie who sold information for fix money. Unreliable as a human being, but he had good ears and better survival instincts.
"Make it quick."
"That Martinez woman. The one with the sick kid? She's been asking around about lawyers. Pro bono types."
Vincent's grip tightened on the phone. Sarah Martinez owed him fifteen thousand dollars, and she was due to pay tomorrow. The math was simple—she couldn't pay, so she'd become part of his collection. He'd already lined up three clients who were interested in her... services. The grieving widow angle was very popular with a certain demographic.
"What kind of lawyers?"
"The bleeding-heart kind. Civil rights, wrongful death, that bullshit. Word is she's trying to reopen her husband's case."
Vincent felt a familiar heat building in his chest. David Martinez had been a problem—asking too many questions about safety violations at the chemical plant, threatening to go to the EPA. Vincent's associates at Apex Chemical had paid good money to make that problem disappear, and they wouldn't appreciate having it resurface.
"Where is she now?"
"Home. But boss, there's something else. She's been getting weird mail. Some kind of legal thing, but not from any lawyer I know. Real mysterious stuff."
Vincent ended the call and stared at the wall, where his grandfather's portrait watched him with dead eyes. Salvatore Torrino had built this empire with blood and bullets, carving out a piece of Gotham through sheer brutality. He'd understood that fear was the only currency that never inflated, the only investment that always paid dividends.
But Salvatore had also understood that problems left unattended became cancers. And cancers had to be cut out before they spread.
Vincent walked to his office safe and removed a leather-bound ledger—his grandfather's book, passed down through three generations of Torrinos. Every debt, every favor, every life taken or spared was recorded in meticulous detail. Vincent flipped to the current entries, running his finger down the names until he found Sarah Martinez.
Next to her name, he wrote: "Accelerated collection. Personal attention required."
He closed the book and placed it back in the safe, then selected a clean knife from his collection. Each blade had a story—this one had opened Detective Morrison's first bribe envelope, that one had carved up the last social worker who'd gotten too curious about missing kids. Tonight, a new blade would write a new story.
Vincent checked his watch. 2:47 AM. Sarah Martinez would be asleep, probably dreaming about her dead husband and her dying daughter. In a few hours, she'd wake up to a nightmare that would make her current problems seem like pleasant memories.
He called Tony, who answered on the first ring.
"Boss?"
"Change of plans. The Martinez woman needs a personal visit. Tonight."
"You want me to bring the camera?"
Vincent smiled, the expression transforming his face into something that belonged in a medieval painting of hell.
"Bring everything. This is going to be a feature presentation."
As he climbed the stairs from the basement, Vincent hummed an old Italian song his grandfather used to sing while working. It was about a shepherd who protected his flock from wolves, no matter the cost. The song had a beautiful melody, but Vincent had always preferred the verses about what happened to the wolves.
Behind him, the basement fell silent except for the steady drip of water and the occasional creak of old bones. The walls had absorbed decades of screams, confessions, and final prayers. They were good walls—thick, soundproof, and discreet.
Soon, they would have new stories to absorb.
Vincent adjusted his tie and stepped into the Gotham night, where the rain had finally stopped and the stars were hidden behind clouds like witnesses afraid to testify. The city sprawled around him, full of people who owed him money, favors, or fear.
All of them would pay their debts, one way or another.
It was just good business.