Steward dipped his bleeding knuckles into a bowl of cold water, wincing as the icy liquid stung his raw skin. Frustration etched deep lines across his face, his jaw clenched tight with barely contained anger. The room, dimly lit and reeking of sweat and blood, felt suffocating.
"You either tell me everything you know, Sergio," Steward growled, his voice low and menacing, "or I swear to god you're not going to have it easy when Enzo Romano comes back." He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "And trust me, you don't want to know what 'not easy' means in my book."
He had been beating Sergio for what felt like an eternity, though in reality, it had only been about an hour. The prisoner sat before him, battered and bruised, yet somehow still defiant. Not a single confession had passed his lips. Steward was growing restless, his patience wearing thin with each passing moment.
