Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

DARIO

I sit in the shadows in the storage room of the bar. Beneath a naked lightbulb, a Romano soldier is tied to a chair, blood running from his nose and leaking from his scalp, dripping down his cheeks like tears. In my mind, I wonder what Elena would say if she could see me now. I know she’d hate it. I know she’d be disgusted. No civilian is ever prepared for what mafiosi life is really like.

“Are you trying to tell us that the vandalism of the charity is completely unrelated to my meeting with your boss?” I ask.

The man shudders, his lips trembling. “I don’t know nothing.”

I sigh, gesturing at Allessio. He slaps the man across the face so hard that the chair falls to the floor. Paolo quickly rights it, and then Allessio hits him again.

“Nobody is getting any enjoyment out of this. You’re well known to us as a lead soldier in this area. You’re wasting our time by keeping your mouth shut. It’s just going to cause you more pain.”

Again, I feel Elena watching me in the back of my head. It makes me feel too damn vulnerable. When I said we should kiss for practice, part of me meant it. Though part of me just wanted to taste her sassy lips, wanted to feel the curves of her body. I got carried away big time. My dick still aches every time I think about it.

Is this what genuinely wanting somebody is like? It’s distracting. I need to focus on the Mafia business.

“You think I can tell you anything?” the man grumbles.

“I think you’re making a mistake if you’re more afraid of Vincenzo than me.”

I stand up, walk over to the man, and kneel down, staring into his eyes. Usually, during exchanges like this, I can separate any soft feelings. I don’t have many, but I can quickly bash the ones that arise. However, with Elena’s phantom watching me, her taste still on my lips, dammit, it’s not easy.

I lean forward, glaring at the man. “You’ve got two options. Tell us what we want to know, and we’ll keep you as a prisoner until this shit is over. After that, we’ll exile you from the city. If you keep your mouth shut, we’ll beat you unconscious. When you wake up, you’ll be inside a coffin. Do you know how long a man can survive in a coffin?”

He’s trembling all over now. I’m finding it difficult to be as cold as I should be. I don’t let it show, and I won’t let it affect my behavior, but it’s annoying. I refuse to believe that Elena is changing me or bringing out parts of me I’ve buried all my life. That can’t be the case.

“It depends on how much the man panics,” I go on, “but I’ve heard accounts claiming the person survived as long as five hours. I’m not sure if that’s true, but for the sake of argument, let’s assume it is. Are you ready to endure five hours of hell before you die, all for a man who doesn’t give a shit about you?”

“Would your men endure it?” the man replies.

I grit my teeth. It’s a fair point. “That’s not the goddamn question.”

There’s a long pause. The man sniffles, mixing tears with rivulets of blood. I feel pity for the bastard when I shouldn’t. I have to remind myself what they did. If they’d hit the charity just an hour later, several people would’ve died.

I punch the man in the gut as if trying to prove to myself I’m still the cold bastard I need to be. He gasps and coughs up blood. I hit him again, reminding myself I’m not a good man. In this life, nobody can be good.

“Please,” he gasps. “No more …”

“Then speak ,” I growl, reaching into my holster and taking out my gun. I press the barrel against his forehead. “Or would you prefer I make it quick?”

The man whimpers. Then, slowly, he speaks. “I don’t know what he’s going to do next?—”

“So it was Vincenzo?”

He nods, looking defeated. “I don’t know what he’s got planned, but …”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“We’ve got a new bar, a new hideout. I can give you the address. Okay, man? That’s all I know. I swear.”

I stand up but keep the gun pressed against him the entire time. “You know, ending your miserable life here would be far easier. It’d be safer for everybody involved.”

His eyes water as he stares up at me. “Please, Mr. Moretti. I’m getting married. We’ll disappear, me and my fiancée. You’ll never see us again.”

I glance at Allessio. “Is this true?”

He seems shocked I’d even care enough to confirm. “Yeah, boss.”

I grind my teeth, thinking of Elena, the kiss. She won’t quit my head.

Waving a hand, I say, “Take this prick to a secure location. Make sure he’s telling us the truth. If he is, wait until the bar is empty and then destroy it. If this goes well, nobody has to die. It doesn’t have to escalate into a full-fledged war.”

Allessio nods. “Boss.”

I holster my gun and leave the storage room, walking into the empty bar and pouring myself a glass of whiskey. I’m not usually much of a drinker, but my mind feels like a mess. I should’ve had the discipline not to kiss her. From now on, I need the restraint to keep this as distant as possible.

After knocking the whiskey back, I pour another. Paolo appears at my side, eyeing the bottle with his usual air of analysis.

“It’s been a long day,” I grunt.

“Mind if I pour myself one?”

“Go ahead.”

We sit at the bar together, both sipping from our glasses.

“You were right in there,” he comments. “It would’ve been easier to ice him.”

“I was also right when I said we need to de-escalate,” I snarl. “Vincenzo knew what he was doing, hitting us when no staff were there. He might want to make a point, not start a war. We’ll make a point, too, so the city knows we aren’t weak. If we kill one of his men, there’s no going back.” After a pause, I snap, “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s the thing with you, Paolo. You don’t have to.”

“It’s just, back there … It was almost like you felt sorry for him.”

Well, it can’t be fun being tied to a chair and beaten to a bloody pulp. “I’d never feel sorry for a Romano,” I growl. “I was just playing a role. Good cop.”

“Ah.” Paolo sips his whiskey. “Makes sense.”

He doesn’t believe me, but he won’t challenge me. As I finish the whiskey, I promise myself that’s all I’ll do from now on—play a role. If I kiss Elena again, it’ll all be for show. I can’t let this feeling spiral into something dangerous like an obsession.

Anyway, she’s playing a role.

I can’t trust the kiss. I can’t trust the sass. I can’t trust her, full stop.

It will be difficult reverting to the cold prick I was before I met Elena, but difficult-but-necessary is the name of the game for a Mafia boss. When I’m Don, I’ll have become an expert at ignoring what I want. Hell, my father only married my mother because he had to. Even if they fell in love after , it doesn’t mean he had any choice.

Who would take over if I suddenly decided I didn’t want to be Don? I’m an only child. It would mean giving the Family to somebody else, somebody who’s not a Moretti. It would mean sacrificing everything my father built when he inherited this Family.

It’ll hurt being cold to Elena on some messed-up level, but it’s necessary. As I was thinking moments before, I don’t know if that kiss was real. She could’ve been moaning just because she felt it was what I wanted. Or maybe she thinks it’ll result in more cash. I don’t think she’s that money-minded, but how can I be sure?

The answer is I can’t. So, I’m back to square one. Get a fucking grip.