The Boss's Son | ✅

16

I couldn't imagine how it must be for Mike to see this precious manuscript tattered. The only outward sign of his distress, I could see, was a heavy swallow and a fanned muscle by his yaw. But these could easily be caused by watching Gio in panic and pain. The two Hulks were not niminy-piminy and almost pulled his arms from their sockets as they held him in place. Maybe they had already, the way Gio puled and yowled between them, at the same time trying to make a show of bravery and not feeling any pain.

A ripping sound made my head snap back. Through the lens, I could see how the parchments dangled in halves from Rizzoli's fingers before he let the pieces sail down. Without segue he buried his fist in Gio's stomach, a large signet ring working like brass knuckles. Gio's knees buckled. He hissed and spewed. His captors chose that moment to kick his legs out from under him. Once he had landed hard on his knees, the Hulk with hold of Gio's right arm stepped on Gio's lower leg until a crunchy creak gave witness that his ankle was smashed. Gio's scream vibrated in the marrow of my bones. My stomach plummeted down to the barn floor. My finger on my camera's trigger trembled.

Mike slid closer to me, partly covering me with his body. I could feel his fast beating heart through his ribcage. Pulling myself together, I made a list. I would take these photos to Stan. He would organize the arrests, while I would write my article, and Gio would heal. That's why I was here. This way, Gio's pain wouldn't be wasted. And it wasn't like he had been a saint.

OK, that shouldn't be an argument. We had courts to hand out judgment for crime. It should be left to them. But the thought allowed me to go on and to focus on an important question. How had Rizzoli known that these pages had been forgeries? Even Mike had said that he'd been fooled just by looking at them, if it hadn't been for the mistake that had caused Henry to discard the particular piece of his work, we had seen. Rizzoli must have known before ripping the parchment, right? He wouldn't have done it to any real pages?

"There's the manuscript?" Rizzoli continued in that second, a kind man asking a simple question.

"I don't know what you mean," Gio stuttered, still short of breath and whizzing. "These pages were given to me to sell them here tonight."

Rizzoli consulted the ceiling. "By whom?" he inquired without real interest.

Gio screamed. I couldn't see exactly what had caused his renewed pain, but suspected that one of the Hulks had twisted his arm a little more. "Someone. I don't know."

Rizzoli's fist connected with Gio's cheek and ran over his nose like a bulldozer. Bones scrunched. Blood leaked, running in dark streams down Gio's face and dripping in ruby, thick drops into the sawdust.

That was its function, I realized. They had spread the sawdust so that the floor wouldn't be blotted and stained. There must be a plan in place to spill buckets of blood then, with all the sawdust around. My stomach turned.

Rizzoli checked his hand, wiping it clean on a white handkerchief. His head shook.

"Wrong answer, son. Shall we try again?" One of the men from the circle stepped up behind Gio, kicking against his broken ankle in the process. Not caring for Gio's outcry, he lifted Gio's head by the hair and forced him to look up at Rizzoli. "Where is my manuscript, you little thief."

"I am your thief," Gio exclaimed, his eyes bulging without focus nor direction. "I'd never steal from you."

This time, Rizzoli allowed another of his man to use Gio as his punching bag. He wore leather gloves. Through the camera, it looked like they were padded with sand where it was useful, in order to leave a greater impression. I had heard of such gloves, also used by hooligans in their altercations surrounding soccer games, but never thought to see them in action.