Manhattan keep on making it, Brooklyn keep on takin' it
She didn't look like a hooker, Dominic thought dimly as he sat, handcuffed in the chair in the dark basement. He'd been blindfolded when they'd brought him to the house. He'd still been half-asleep from whatever drug that woman had slipped in his drink then, when they'd led him down the narrow stairs into the basement where they'd taken off the blindfold. That was when the beatings started, the two men who'd led him down there, taking turns raining blows on his face, chest and legs, screaming, cursing him in Spanish. Dominic wasn't fluent, but he knew enough to know they were calling him a rat. That had been the first day. On the second day a man in sunglasses and a leather jacket who spoke English had come down to talk to him. What had he told the FBI about them, the cartel? Had he said anything about Matteo, anything that could lead back to the Cartel. Dominic had denied everything. He wasn't entire...