Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

47 | Nina & Santo

Because of him. 

I knot my hands together, gripping so tightly they tremble. Trying not to stare at that knife he's placed on the countertop now, how it sits a couple feet from me and maybe if I lunged for it, he'd be caught off guard enough for me to bury it in his chest a few times. 

"What are you doing?" He sounds annoyed, throwing away his apple core.

I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. He's not actually asking. He's making sure I know my place. I'm stuck in place, unsure if it would be worse to leave or stand here in silence. I'm overthinking it, frantically trying to think about what old Nina would've done, when—

"Come here. You just standing there is pissing me off. We're going to go see something, you and I. Fucking come on." He holds out a hand, roughly clasping my shoulder when I get close enough. 

I stumble in front of him as he pushes me to the basement door. My lips stretch into a satisfied smile, one I have trouble forcing myself to drop. I thought I'd have to strategize a way to get down there. But here he is, leading me right where I need to go. 

 When he opens that door, I hear the screams. My knees buckle, and I have to grasp onto the doorframe for all I'm worth to avoid falling right down the stairs.

The screams are riddled with agony, tearing through the air. They're animal. They're begging for some unimaginable pain to stop, roaring out a lethal anger, beseeching someone to acknowledge that the sufferer is alive, alive for now. They are everything all at once.

In between that, I hear something else. It's a man's voice, loud and angry. Luciano clearly takes my upset for some kind of trauma response, laughing at me as we make our way down the dark steps.

Seeing it is so much worse than hearing it.

I knew this would be the case, but the truth plows into me now. No amount of time or preparation could ready me to see him like this. Chained to a wall by his wrists, shirtless. His head hanging loosely between his shoulders, blood mixing with ink as it runs down the elongated planes and ridges of his body. He's glistening in sweat, and I watch as a tall man uses a mid-sized blade to carve blood into his torso. As the knife makes contact, Santo's head lifts and he grits his teeth in pain, groaning into the damp air.

"Ling chi," Antonio says, "also known as 'slow slicing' or 'death by a thousand cuts.' Something I learned in my time away. You tie the condemned to a post. Or a wall," he chuckles, "and gradually remove bits of skin and limbs until death comes in a final cut to the heart or decapitation."

Santo groans again, shaking in his chains, his entire body straining. It takes me several seconds to notice why every muscle looks to be screaming in pain, why he looks like he's holding himself up somehow... it's because he is. The wall behind him is crudely crafted with splintered wood that sticks out in spikes. 

In utter horror, I watch as he tries to twist away from his father's blade but only cries out in agony at the movement. He's forced him to take the torture, to hold himself in place so he doesn't drag the splinters further through his flesh. 

"Did you ever use this method? Which was your favorite?" He stares expectantly at Santo, nodding as if suddenly remembering that his son can't exactly speak. "You got your sick mind from me, you know. The way you just know how to hurt people. That doesn't come naturally. No, I gave that to you. I gave you everything. I taught you to kill, I made you good at it because I let you tap into that part of yourself that was aching for it. That was a master at it without me."

He paces, still facing away from us, stopping right in front of his victim to rest a hand on his trembling cheek. Santo is too exhausted to move from the contact. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen. You damn everything you touch. You damned this family. I will have my peace."