THE BRUTE CEO

ont of a mediocre type when unarmed. Less than an insect. Saggy cheeks, fifty-something years on the back. The face devastated by alcohol, cigarette

ossed on the plates, glasses of red wine half empty, an ashtray with cigarettes consuming themselves. Romeo was having dinner with Massimo Ferrante. — Why did you ask if they had a family? — Asked the old man with white hair cut close to his skull, dull light eyes, a boxer's nose, and dry, sunburned skin. — So that the last thought would make them suffer. — The emotionless voice. — Sometimes you are very philosophical, Romeo — The other laughed and it was a big laugh — What attracts you to torture, mio ​​amico? I ask this, because I know what attracts me to torture: the power, the brief minutes when I am God — now he smiled, cigarette smoke escaping between his dry lips. — They were land grabbers. — Hmm, how unlucky they are — Massimo clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth — They were already doomed — He wiped off some ash that fell on his pants with his fingertips — Were they the ones who invaded the indigenous reserve? Romeo nodded and took another sip of wine. - Exactly. Their leader was Bernardino Amaro, a gunman who sold his services to farmers, contractors and politicians in the region — he said, angrily, then sighing — He pissed himself when I took the knife out of the sheath. Massimo laughed loudly, in his scandalous way as an Italian who had lived in Brazil for over forty years. — In a way, you did the gunman's former bosses a favor, burning the files without them getting their hands dirty. The farmer's gaze slowly fell on the older man's eyes. — The bosses are on my list, my dear. — There was serenity in the way he spoke. — I hope you don't become a vigilante, that's not good for business — The old man adjusted himself in his chair, leaning forward as if he were going to tell him a secret — Stay discreet and reserved as you always were, a little death here and there It doesn't attract anyone's atte