He’d been squeezing his eyes shut, but he forced them open to look up at me. He was sweaty, his skin was gray, and there were tears in his eyes.

“Rafael Santoro murdered my family. All of them. Even an unborn baby. No … no, don’t close your eyes. Don’t you dare look away. I want you to see my face. I want you to look into my eyes and listen to my voice and then decide if you are more afraid of those men—who are hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles away—or me. The guy who is right here with you this very minute.”

I gave him a few moments on that.

“By now, you’ll have heard about what I did in Italy. In Johannesburg, Kraków. I’ve been having some fun out there. Have you heard? Yeah, I can see it in your eyes,” I said. “I guess you have someone feeding you information. Good.”

It took him a moment to find his voice. “You’re just going to kill me. Why should I tell you anything?”

I shrugged. “You only heard about Italy, Johannesburg, and Kraków, but you didn’t hear about the other places I’ve been? Want to know why?”

He said nothing, but he was as attentive as a schoolboy.

“You didn’t hear about the other places because I didn’t leave blood on those walls,” I said. “How do you think I found those other places? Those other labs and warehouses, the other safe houses? I’ve had conversations like this quite a few times, sport. I’ve had meaningful chats with some people just like you. Or maybe they were smarter. Maybe they valued their own lives enough to answer my questions without trying the sucker punch crap. Don’t get me wrong, though, sometimes I had to ask in very specific ways. You think you’re in pain now? Imagine how you’ll feel if you fuck with me or stonewall me. I’m leaving here with information, that’s one of life’s few certainties. The question is whether I get all cranked and cut your balls off and feed them to my dog first … or whether I leave happy and you get medical treatment for a slip and fall. Your face isn’t marked, so no one here will ever know we had this chat.”

His eyes were huge, but I could see him working it out. He glanced at the door, then at Ghost, and back up at me.

There were beads of greasy sweat on Casanova’s upper lip and forehead. Some of it was pain, and some was fear. Equal portions, I’d guess.

“How do I know you won’t kill me?” he asked.