Free Master of None by Sonya Bateman Page A

already stifling air, and the slab floor thatchilled my feet through my socks showed layers of blotched stains, the ghosts of fluids that couldn’t have been water.
    I knew he was into torture, but I never imagined he’d elevated it to an art form.
    The light came from a dense cluster of flickering candles at various stages of melted, arranged on a small curtained table. Wax buildup, the thick and blackened kind that could only have come from years of burning candles in the same spot, clumped along the edges and descended in stippled waves down the fabric draping the sides. It reminded me of the bless-me-Father-for-I-am-fucked displays common to low-income ethnic neighborhood churches. I’d seen plenty of them growing up. Nobody’s Aunt Maria ever recovered from cancer because of them. Nobody won the lottery. And nobody’s parents miraculously returned from the grave, either. I knew—I’d spent every Sunday afternoon for two years confessing sins, regurgitating Hail Marys, and lighting those damned candles. They were false advertising.
    Back to the inventory. What basement torture chamber would be complete without the requisite instruments? Despite the high-tech gadgetry controlling the fortress upstairs, Trevor remained downright medieval in his choices of pain-causing devices. A pegboard displayed a collection of pliers, good for the wholesale yanking of nails and teeth. Ball-peen hammers ranging in size from miniature to skull-crushing marched down the right side of the board.
    Restraints seemed a common theme, too. There were chains, cuffs, collars, and lengths of rope, like the one keeping me suspended in place and rubbing my wrists raw. A bundle of smooth rods stood in a far corner. From here I couldn’t tell what material they were made with, but it looked as if they’dhurt. An enormous gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall to the right of the stairs. He probably liked to have his victims watch themselves being tortured.
    Best of all was the long table encompassed by a sectioned wooden frame, complete with an oversized gear and a crank handle. A good old-fashioned rack.
    I couldn’t wait for Trevor to come down. What fun we’d have.
    A whispered rustle of sound crept from a shadowed alcove to my right, at the opposite end of the room from the stairs leading up. I squinted in that direction, but the candlelight refused to penetrate the blackness there. The sound didn’t repeat. Maybe I’d been hearing things. Might have been a rat or some other basement-dwelling creature.
    Another sound commanded my attention. Measured footfalls on the stairs. Oh, good. Time for pain.
    I tried to hold the guttering hope that the alcove, with its mysterious noises, contained a way out. A crumbling wall, a secret passage, a sewer grate. I wasn’t picky. Since I didn’t intend to tell Trevor anything just yet, he wouldn’t kill me right away. Maybe the rope would loosen or weaken while he beat on me. It could happen.
    So could Armageddon. At least that would take Trevor, too.
    Trevor entered the room alone. A point in my favor—no thugs to witness my forthcoming screams. He’d cleaned himself up but hadn’t bothered to button his fresh shirt. He still wore the pendant. The snake tattoos seemed alive in the flickering candlelight, writhing hungrily over his torso, devouring him. His eyes shone with carefully contained insanity. And he’d brought the Taser.
    I was so dead.
    He stopped in front of me. “Mr. Donatti.”
    “Present.”
    Trevor jammed the Taser against my thigh and pulled the trigger.
    I went limp. Fortunately, the rope held me up. He kept the jolt short, and when he pulled back, I gasped. “Jesus Christ. Aren’t you supposed to ask me a question first?”
    Trevor shook his head as if he was disappointed. This time, the damned thing juiced the side of my neck.
    The charge exploded in my head, blinding me. My mouth opened. No sound emerged. I figured smoke would start billowing out, but saliva foamed over my