13. Chapter Thirteen

“Your brother’s got him ready for you, Signor Vitelli,” Salvatore informs me as I walk into the aluminum-cladded warehouse at the docks. He’s just about bouncing on the balls of his feet.

I’ve long since lost enthusiasm for the darker aspects of my work, but there’s a faint restless feeling in my fingers tonight, as if they’re still itching for what’s coming.

“Grazie, Salvatore,” I say as I cross the epoxy floors to the steel-slab door at the back of the building that leads down. Down to a concrete-walled room. Down to a room I’ve ventured into many times before.

Salvatore follows me, then rushes ahead at the bottom of the stairs to open the door to the concrete room.

Inside, there are two chairs, one of them steel and bolted to the concrete floor that’s been stained a rust color from blood. On the steel chair sits the man I’ve come to see, a man secured to the chair with ankle and wrist cuffs. Tommaso Barzini—one of Romano’s soldiers and the man who killed Leo.

He’s been stripped to his boxers, and he has a rag in his mouth. There’s a nasty purplish bruise marring his left eye—that’ll be the least of his injuries soon.

“I thought about gift-wrapping him for you, fratello, but I was fresh out of bows,” Dante says. He’s standing off to the right of Barzini, his arms crossed over his chest.

I nod and force a half-smile. “You can go, Salvatore,” I say as I look over my guest for the evening. Regardless of his enthusiasm, I’m not in the mood for an audience. Especially not Salvatore.

Salvatore’s expression falters for just a moment, but he nods and leaves the room without a word.

The door closes behind him, but I barely hear it as I stare at Tommaso Barzini. Though he’s glaring at me defiantly, his flabby body draws into itself, shoulders hunching, knees pressed together, calves digging into the steel legs of the chair. He’s trying to hide, to escape what’s coming.

I look away without a word and turn to the steel table against the far wall where every instrument a man could need is laid out. Knives. Pliers. A ball-peen hammer and three-inch-long nails. A few long, thin needles. No gun, though—that would be too quick.

“You killed a man who worked for me,” I say as I cross the room to the table. There’s no emotion in my tone, no rage, no satisfaction. Nothing. I’ve learned to hide these things well.

Barzini doesn’t make a sound, but I can feel his eyes on me without looking. He’s watching my every move as I run my fingers down the short hilt of a smaller combat knife nearest the edge of the table.

“So,” I continue, “You’re going to die today. There’s no walking away. No one is going to come for you. And you already know I am a man devoid of mercy.”

I leave the combat knife that looks too much like Sophie’s to be in this cold, dank room and reach for the one beside it. It’s longer and the edge is straighter, less curve to it. I pick it up and return to Barzini, where Dante is already standing behind him, his face grim. Even Dante doesn’t relish this part of our lives.

“What you must decide now is how quickly you want that end to come and how much pain you’re going to endure before it does.”

He mumbles behind the rag as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tight, his knuckles turn white.

I remove the gag, though I know it’s too early. Barzini is still rigid and unpliable right now. It’ll take days of torture and starvation, sprinkled with doses of threats and cajoling to soften him. Or an extreme degree of brutality if I want him to talk tonight. Sadly, it’ll have to be the latter because I don’t have the time or inclination to host this man for longer than necessary.

“So, Tommaso, are you going to make this easy on yourself and tell me what I want to know?”

“Fuck you, stronzo,” he curses, proving me right.

Dante heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Here we fucking go. Fratello, let me loosen him up a little. One ear and two fingers should do. He should be good and ready by tomorrow evening.”

Barzini’s eyes narrow.

“Si, but what’s the point of him bleeding out on our floor for a whole twenty-four hours to get the same information he would give today?” I say to Dante, but more for Barzini’s benefit. Then I face Barzini. “You can take the easy or hard route, Tommaso, but it ends the same way—your life.”

Terror has seeped into his beady eyes, but his mouth remains stubbornly shut.

I shake my head and lean in closer, placing the tip of the knife against his chest, just below his left clavicle. And then I slice, one long, slow cut from clavicle to clavicle.

He groans loudly, and his whole body jerks and shakes. By the time he’s finished, there’s blood dripping from his mouth as well as his chest—he’s bitten through his tongue.

“I’ll ask you some questions. If it takes you more than five seconds to respond, the result will be the same,” I explain while he pants through the pain, trying to keep his wits about him—not that it will do him any good.

“How did your boss, Romano get his claws into Leo Ricci?” I ask, tamping down the rush of anger and grief that try to well up in equal measure.

He glares at me, silent, his jaw clenched so tight, it trembles.

So, I move an inch lower on his chest and slice again from one side to the other, slow and steady.

This time, he can’t hold it back. He lets out a roar that reverberates off the walls as his face turns almost purple in agony.

I lean back and wait. I’m a patient man when it serves my purpose.

“Alright, let’s do this one more time,” I say when Barzini has settled into the occasional pained grunt.

“How did your boss get his claws into Leo Ricci?”

He glares at me, but the answer is right there on the tip of his bleeding tongue. “The Agua,” he spits out.

I recognize the name. It’s a nightclub in Romanos territory, one where patrons dance and drink the night away on the main floor while another type of carnal activity takes place beneath it.

“Go on,” I say.

“The boss watched him every night for two weeks, watched him get drunk and use a different whore every night to fuck away his demons. All Romano had to do was offer him a briefcase of money and a one-way ticket to Cuba, and he caved like a pussy.”

I keep my expression blank, but beneath it, I’m reeling. Leo had never said a word about struggling, about demons, not until the night he died. I hadn’t suspected a goddamned thing. Maybe if I had, I might have helped Leo in some way.

I put the tip of the knife a few inches below the second slice and say to Barzini, “After carrying out a few of jobs for Romano, Leo started to say no.” I press on. “What was it Leo refused to get for Romano, even when he knew what reneging on their deal would cost him?”

Barzini spits out a wad of bloody spittle and shakes his head. “If I tell you that, I’m a dead man.”

Dante and I chuckle. The sound carries little humor, but it still feels out of place here. “You’re already a dead man.” I might be an evil motherfucker, but I’m generally an honest one. No bullshit. No false hope.

He looks away, staring down at the slices across his chest and his flabby abdomen, covered with blood. But he says nothing. It seems he needs a little more motivation.

I take the knife from his chest, grip the handle firmly, and drive it down in one savage stab, piercing his right wrist and severing his median nerve.

“Stop,” he screams as I yank the blade out and raise it, preparing for a second blow. “I’ll… tell you, please, stop.”

I lower the blade to my side, waiting as blood drips from the tip onto the floor.

He pants for a moment, then looks up at me. His eyes are narrowed in pain, but he’s smiling. Blood covers his teeth and drips from his bottom lip, making it one of the most grotesque smiles I’ve ever seen.

“Leo Ricci… was supposed to kill you.”

What? It feels like someone has tried to yank the proverbial rug out from under my feet.

Barzini continues, “Romano wanted you dead, and he wanted your man to do it so that your loyalists wouldn’t try to take revenge on him.”

My heart beats harder. What the actual fuck?

“Ma che cazzo?” Dante swears, echoing my exact thoughts.

I force the surge of guilt and regret rising deep within me. Leo betrayed me. He did not dig himself into a deep, dark hole and then lay down his life for me. No goddamned way.

I grip the knife tighter. Barzini has given me all the information I want from him. He’s useless now. And he knows it. I can see it in the helpless loathing in his eyes.

“Burn in hell, pezzo di merda,” he seethes right before I drag the blade across his throat in one swift slice.

In a matter of seconds, he’s gone. The man who murdered my best friend is dead. And I feel no relief because this is just the start to the whole fucking bloody war.

The knife clatters to the floor as I stare at my latest kill while a new kind of restlessness floods my veins.

“You know what this means then, Nico?” I feel Dante’s hand on my shoulder.

I give him a curt nod. “War.”

Romano used to be one of my father’s Capos early on in his rule, but the moment my father pulled the narcotics business from the Outfit, Romano, along with a few other Capos and dozens of seasoned men, broke off. My father was reluctant to wipe out Romano because they were childhood friends.

And now Romano wouldn’t hesitate to kill the son of the man who spared him despite his betrayal. Which just proves that there really is no room for mercy in this dark world. Love only makes us think there is.

I say through gritted teeth, “Pascal Romano has taken our tolerance for stupidity, and he needs to pay.”

“Agreed,” Dante rakes his hand through his too-long hair, a move that now reminds me of the brothers of Reaper Druids MC, who like to keep their hair long. And, of course, my mind goes to Sophie, who doesn’t want to identify with them, yet she can’t bring herself to cut hers.

Dante’s voice draws me back to the present, “At this point, it’s either kill or be killed. I hear Romano is shacking up with the Mexican Cartel.”

I whip my gaze to Dante. “Are you certain?”

“Not one hundred percent, but my informant’s guesses are hardly ever wrong.”

“Then he needs to be swiftly put down before he mutates into something completely unmanageable.”

The Mexican cartel has a robust trafficking business, something I’ve strictly prohibited on my turf. Unfortunately, the business is a lucrative one. If Romano has indeed taken up with the Cartel, he’s likely well-funded and supported by them.

“Take the night off, Dante. Gather my men for a briefing in a few days.” I start to leave, but then I stop and turn back to add, “All of my men.”

“De Luca too?

Orlando De Luca is the oldest and most powerful Capo. Unfortunately, he’s also the most disenfranchised and whose allegiance needs to be re-affirmed. I want his complete loyalty, but the one thing the man wants above all, is a Vitelli son-in-law.

“Especially De Luca, Dante,” I insist. “This is the time to get everyone aligned against our common enemy.”

“Aligned, huh?” Dante cocks an eyebrow, a slow smirk spreading on his face. “Do I hear wedding bells then, fratello?”

I shrug. After all, I’m thirty-three, in dire need of an heir, and Alina De Luca is more than a consolation prize.

Or so I thought until around three weeks ago. Until I happened upon a certain sexy, mouthy feelings guru who looks and responds and speaks to me like she was tailor-made to fuck me up.

“Wedding, War, Retribution, the bells all peal the same. We need De Luca fully on board. So, we’ll give him what he wants.”

A smile pulls at Dante’s lips. “Sì,fratello. Now you go on, I’ll finish here.” He nods toward the dead man.

I wipe my hands on a rag, spin on my feet, and leave. Emotions surge up my throat like bile and make my fingers itch for the phone in my breast pocket.

I ignore the itch, tamp it down, and squeeze my hands into fists. All through the drive home, I grip the Lambo’s steering wheel in an effort to stop myself from calling out a call command for the car’s Bluetooth.

I manage to resist the urge until I reach home, but as I head into my shower to wash away the blood and grime, the need surges again. I try to drown it out under the hot spray.

I just saw the woman less than twelve hours ago. How is it possible that it feels like a month already?

I leave the shower only mildly refreshed, but the annoying itch persists. It’s there, far beneath the surface of my skin. And there’s only one goddamned way to scratch it. I pull out my phone, swipe the screen, and stare at her number.

“Christ. I’ve lost my fucking mind,” I whisper aloud as I give in to the urge and dial.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

“Would you just go get laid already?” Sophie snaps the moment the ringing stops, her voice thick with sleep. “I guarantee it’ll be more satisfying than these late-night prank calls.”

The corners of my lips twitch despite the wretched night. “I would if you’re offering, fiammetta.”

“Nico?” Her voice is suddenly alert. “What the— She pauses, then huffs. “You know it’s the middle of the night, right? There are limits to a client-therapist relationship—boundaries, they’re called. I think we need to discuss them.”

“Who did you think was calling?”

“Oh, that. I get a few prank calls now and then. They like to tantalize me with their silence.”

I bugged her phone three weeks ago, but that was only for a few days. If someone else is monitoring her calls, she might be getting silent calls or clicks, especially if it’s badly done. “How can you be sure it’s just a prank call?”

“It’s one of the hazards of the job. It’s probably some lonely chap who needs to hear the sound of another human’s voice.”

“No, you don’t get me, Sophie. How do you know it’s a prank call and not a bug?” I ask

She chuckles, “Come on, Nico. My life is not that exciting.”

“I’d say it is now. I’m in it.”

She snaps in irritation, “Oh wow. Your arrogance is boundless. Completely without limits.”

“Well, I’ve once bugged your phones and intercepted all your calls before.”

“What! Nico, that is way out of line. Why would you do that?”

I snort. “Dont get your panties in a twist, fiammetta, it was only for a couple of days, and just as a precaution.” Considering what I’d planned to do to her, bugging her phone seems inconsequential.

“I see. Thats why you’re paranoid. You think if you could do it, someone else can. Well, I can’t imagine who’d want to listen in on my conversations.”

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t, and I can’t take that risk.”

“Wow. There really is no rest for the wicked, is there?”

I smile, shaking my head. “No, you little brat. But on a more serious note, you need a secure phone—one that ensures fully encrypted calls.”

“Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad. It might even come in handy for my telephone sessions.”

“It’s settled then, I’ll get you one.”

“Smashing. I’m glad we worked that out. Goodnight, Nico.”

“Sophie!” I call sharply. “Don’t you dare hang up.”

“What? Oh, the reason you woke me up in the middle of the night wasn’t to discuss phone bugs?”

“Very funny. I want to talk to you.”

“I thought my phone wasn’t ‘secure’ enough for you?”

My need for her outweighs my paranoia, and the thought of waiting till later today to see her is laughable in the state I’m in. “He’s dead because of me,” I say without preamble, and I hear her breath catch.

She asks, all traces of humor and sarcasm gone from her voice, “Leo?”

“They killed him because of me.”

“But I thought you did it… never mind, tell me about it, Nico,” she says softly, and the sound washes over me like a balm.

I drop into a chair, throw my head back, close my eyes, and picture her face. “He was promised a shit-ton of cash if he did a job—enough money to move across the world and start a new life. But one job turned into two. And then one more…” I can picture the stricken look on Leo’s face when Romano told him what he had to do.

She’s silent, but I know she’s listening, giving me time to get it out at my own pace.

“I was the job. Leo was supposed to kill me.”

“But he couldn’t do it,” she states. It’s not a question.

“No,” I reply quietly.

“So, in the end, even though he’d made a mistake, he redeemed himself.”

“Si, you could say that.”

“But that doesn’t make you feel better.” Again, not a question.

“I was going to kill him, Sophie. When he told me what he’d done, I had no choice. But they got to him before I could…”

“It would have ripped you apart if you pulled the trigger.”

I close my eyes and see Barzini as if the dead man was in front of me. I have no qualms, no regrets for any of the things I did to him. The sight of blood and his severed windpipe doesn’t bother me. But the memory of that single, clean bullet hole in my best friend’s head…

My stomach roils. I lean forward and breathe deeply, fighting the urge to vomit.

“I’m sorry, Nico,” she says like she means it.

“That’s it? No wise words?” I reply more harshly than I’d intended.

“Would it matter if I had any?” she asks gently, not rising to my tone.

I inhale deeply and blow out a heavy breath. “No,” I admit.

“I think Leo proved to you with that final act that he loved you. And I know you loved him too. But still, love is never enough, is it?”

I lean forward, dropping my elbows on my knees. It feels like I’m reaching toward her, trying to draw her next words out.

“Trust… loyalty… they matter more in your world.”

I say nothing, but I don’t need to—she gets me. I want her to keep talking. It doesn’t even matter what she says at this point. I just want to hear her voice. It’s soft and calm, but with an undercurrent of steel.

“If one of the club brothers betrayed my dad, there’d be no regaining that trust. Once trust dies, there’s no reviving it.”

“I know.”

“My mother left when I was eight,” Sophie suddenly says.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Why did she leave?” I thought Phoenix was widowed.

“She, uh…” Sophie hesitates. “She wanted a different kind of life to what Dad could give her. A clean, new life.”

“Ah fiammetta…” I see why she hated my reference to a shiny new life.

“The thing is, Nico, she came back five years later, all changed and so determined to win us back. For a whole year, Dad kept turning her away. He didn’t want to expose us to being hurt like that again.”

Sophie pauses, and I imagine her bracing herself for the rest of the story.

“And just when we were starting to let her back in, she disappeared again. Dad later found out she had been living with another man all the time she was away. They even had a little girl… and she’d abandoned her, too.

Oh fuck.“I’m so sorry.” There’s a familiar tightening in my belly. A feeling I only ever get with Sophie. It’s an insane desire to have her bury her face in my chest and soak my shirt with those tears I know she’s fighting to hold back. A desire to replace her pain with pleasure.

She sniffs, “We still love and miss her. But it’s never going to be enough, is it?”

“Hell no.”

“So, Nico, if Leo was still alive and somehow you forgave him, could you still trust him?”

“No.” It would have meant always wondering, always looking over my shoulder, waiting for the inevitable blow, and not knowing when or where it would strike.

Now it’s my turn to read what’s plainly between the lines. “Sophie?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you cut ties from your home?”

I hear her tremulous sigh. “If I’d stayed, I’d have ended up wearing Rafe’s property patch. He was a good person. Everyone respected him. It was a nice feeling to have such a guy in love with me, but I was afraid of turning out like my mother. Of leaving him at some point.”

I see. “And why do you try to hide who you are?”

I can almost picture her shrugging, “I don’t know. My first few relationships, the guys kept breaking up with me. They thought I was weird, and that was before they got to know about the whole MC part of my life. I developed this fear, I guess, that someone I really loved would leave me because of my background. Besides, it’s easier to blend in this way with my line of work.”

A flash of anger grips me. “Okay. Listen to me, Sophie. First off, you’re not your mother. You’re too stubborn to be pressured into settling for a man you don’t love. And second, if you do happen to fall in love and the fucker ever tries to leave you for being yourself, you let me know and—”

“What? You’ll put a bullet in them?”

“You better believe it.”

Her laughter, light and infectious, catches me off guard. Its surprising how much I want to hear it again, to be the reason why she makes those sounds.

“Why do I find that disturbingly sweet, Nico? I think you’re a bad influence on me.”

“Oh, no. This one is all you, trust me.”

“Yeah, you wish! But, thanks. Really.”

I take a breath and realize it comes easier. The vise that had been crushing my chest has loosened a little. She did that. The mouthy woman who I hadn’t known existed until three weeks ago has made it easier for me to fucking breathe.

I shake my head.

“No, thank you, Sophie,” I say, then I disconnect the call because this is bad. Because as much as I want to fuck her—possibly more than I’ve ever wanted a woman before—I’m starting to want the rest of her just as much.

And that is just fucking insane because I’m supposed to be preparing to hitch myself to another woman. I wonder how Orlando De Luca would feel about an alternative.

Another Vitelli.