I don’t see Bastian anywhere, though, and look around, circling behind abandoned machinery to where I hear more men. Laughter. And my brother telling someone to go fuck himself. I hurry toward the sound, Dominic’s men at my back, and see them in a wide open room with drains along the cracked tile floor. Meat hooks dangle from the ceiling. My brother hangs from one, handcuffs hooked, and his hands holding tight to support his weight. He’s shirtless and barefoot. His feet don’t touch the ground. And from here, I can see the damage they’ve done to his chest. His back.

A man gears up to punch him in the gut. Bastian grunts as the man turns to his buddies and laughs. But he doesn’t know my brother. Bastian lays his weight into the swing, using momentum, and lifts his legs as he swings back toward the asshole who hit him. He manages to kick him in the face when he turns around.

The man curses, then spits blood. His friends laugh outright, but he reaches for a cattle prod. I have my gun out, and before he can get close to Bastian, I shoot the bastard in the side of the head. Blood splatters my brother as the man stands momentarily still, as if his body hasn’t registered the fact that he just died, before he falls over sideways.

It takes his buddies a moment to process what has just happened, and by the time they get their weapons, Dominic’s men are on them.

“Don’t kill them outright,” I order as I hurry to Bastian.

“Took you fucking long enough, brother,” Bastian says as I lift him just high enough so he can get his arms free of the hook. I set him down, see him wince, and wonder what damage they did to the bottoms of his feet. His wrists are raw and bloody, burns and bruises mark his chest, stomach, shoulders, and back. But he stands straighter, swallowing down the pain. “Give me your gun.”

I hand it over, taking in the bruise around his eye and the cut along his lip. And I watch as, rather than using the gun to shoot his tormentors, he beats the shit out of each one with the butt of the pistol, wrists still cuffed, until six men are lying barely conscious on the filthy ground.

He crouches down beside the body of the one I shot and digs into his pockets to retrieve the key to the cuffs. He stands and holds it out to me. I can see he’s in pain.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I’ll be fine. Vittoria?”

“Safehouse.”

“Good.” He looks at the men as I unlock his cuffs.

“Hang them from the meat hooks. Wait until they come around to kill them,” I tell Dominic’s soldiers.