His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

1. Luca

1

LUCA

T here is nothing better than simple organization. In a world like mine, where nearly every moment is bloody, I take the time to enjoy the rare moments when things are as they should be - clean, controlled, calm.

It's the only things I feel now.

I arrange each implement with methodical care, ensuring precise spacing between the gleaming metal tools. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the warehouse's concrete floor, reflecting off the polished steel surface where my instruments wait.

My current target's breath hitches. His chest heaves against the zip ties securing him to the metal chair. Sweat darkens the collar of his cheap polyester shirt.

I lift a scalpel, rotating it to catch the light. The edge requires testing. My thumbnail grazes the blade - perfect. "Where is my shipment, Mr. Torres?" My voice remains level, as it always does.

"Please, I don't- I didn't-" His words dissolve into a wet sob.

If he thinks tears are going to work on me, he'll quickly learn he is mistaken. I'm quite aware of my reputation of being a psychopath for my lack of emotion in every situation - I didn't even blink when I was kidnapped recently. It seems not everyone realizes just how accurate it is.

I loosen my tie, folding it with careful precision before setting it aside. Can't risk getting blood on Italian silk. Rolling up my sleeves, I study the way his pupils dilate with mounting terror. "Your associate already confirmed your involvement. I simply need the location." I check my grandfather's Rolex - time is a resource I won't waste.

"You're insane," he chokes out. "Everyone said... they said you were different from your father but-"

"Different methods. Same objectives." I select a pair of pliers, weighing them in my palm. Needle nose - for precision. "Though I find efficiency preferable to brute force."

His chair scrapes against concrete as he thrashes. "Wait! Please, I'll tell you everything!"

I pause, arching an eyebrow. "I know you will. The only variable is how many pieces remain intact when you do." My ice-blue eyes meet his, and I watch the last fragments of resistance crumble. They always do. Emotion is inefficient - it only delays the inevitable.

The scalpel feels like an extension of my hand as I step forward. "Now, shall we begin with fingers, or would you prefer to skip the formalities?"

Torres's screams echo through the warehouse, but they're background noise - no different than traffic or rain. Each cut is precise, measured. No wasted movement or excessive force. That's where most people fail during interrogation - too much emotion leads to mistakes.

I have none so it's never been a problem.

I make another careful incision along his forearm, tracking the path of veins and arteries with surgical accuracy. Blood wells up, coating my fingers. The metallic scent fills the air.

"Ready to tell me where my shipment is?" It's another thing about me that seems to unnerve people, my voice. It's always quietly calm, devoid of emotion. I wouldn't even know how to put it in there if I tried.

His head lolls forward, chin trembling. "I can't... they'll kill me..."

"And you believe I won't?" It's not a threat, not said with anger the way my father would. It's a quiet, controlled question. I wipe the scalpel clean, selecting a smaller blade. "The difference is, I can make it last weeks."

The blood on my hands catches the light, turning them crimson. For a fraction of a second, the warehouse dissolves. I'm eight years old again, pressed against shattered glass and twisted metal. Blood coats my palms as I reach for her, trying to wake her. The copper smell mixed with gasoline. Her lips moving without sound...

My fingers brush the watch face, automatic. The cool metal grounds me. I pull out my handkerchief, meticulously cleaning off the antique timepiece until the memory fades like smoke.

Correction - there is one sliver of emotion left in my body. Something that only one memory can pull out before it is crushed under the weight of my control.

Torres whimpers, but I barely register it. The blood will take hours to clean from the watch's delicate mechanisms, which I will do when I get home. Mother always said to take care of it. I check the time - we've been here forty-seven minutes.

"Let's continue." I select another instrument. "I find most people last approximately six hours before psychological breaks occur. We have time."

My voice remains perfectly steady. It always does. Emotion is a weakness I excised long ago, buried in the wreckage with her. Only the watch remains, ticking away the seconds with mechanical precision.

Another hour passes before the warehouse door crashes open, steel groaning on its hinges. My father's heavy footsteps echo across concrete, the scent of whiskey preceding him but barely noticeable beneath his cologne. I sigh as I pick up a cloth and start to wipe my hands.

Somehow, he always looks put together. I wonder if anyone ever realizes that he's wasted most of the time, that he is always flying off the handle because he drowns his control in a bottle. He's given the Mantiones quite the reputation for being unpredictable.

"What the fuck is this shit?" He gestures wildly at Torres, who hangs limp in his restraints. "Two hours and you're still playing doctor?"

I don't move, continuing to clean beneath my nails with surgical precision. "He'll break within the next thirty minutes."

"Break? brEAK?" Father grabs a hammer from my carefully arranged tools, scattering the rest across the floor. The metallic clatter sets my teeth on edge. "I'll show you how a real Mantione handles business."

The hammer connects with Torres's kneecap. The crack of bone mingles with his renewed screams. Blood sprays across my father's white shirt - amateur. Mother would have known how to remove those stains.

"Where's the fucking shipment?" Another swing, another scream. " This is how you get answers!"

I remain motionless, one hand resting on my watch. Each wild blow reveals another tactical error - too much force dispersed incorrectly, vital organs damaged prematurely, information compromised by shock. Torres's eyes roll back as consciousness fades. Inefficient.

My phone vibrates, and I look away from the mess he's making. The message preview catches my attention.

Cappalletti soldiers spotted at the docks. Giovanni demanding meeting - threatens war over territory breach.

Father notices my slight shift in posture. "What? More bad news from your precious 'modern methods'?" He spits the words, hammer dripping gore onto my polished shoes.

I pocket the phone, maintaining eye contact. "The Cappallettis seem unhappy with your recent... expansion efforts."

"Fuck them!" He hurls the hammer. It embeds in the wall inches from my head. I don't blink. It's been so long, I've forgotten what it even feels like to be afraid - and that has left my body without its survival instincts. "You think you're so much smarter than me, with your clean hands and fancy suits. But this?" He grabs Torres by the hair, yanking his head back. "This is who we are. This is what your mother married into. What you are to become."

My fingers trace the watch face, its steady ticking drowning out Torres's wet gasps. "No, Father. This is who you are."

I watch Father storm out, his drunken rage echoing through the warehouse like a child's tantrum. The door slams with enough force to rattle my instruments. Wasteful. His outbursts grow more frequent, his control slipping like sand through arthritic fingers. It's a wonder he even holds it together in front of the other families - and even then it's not well.

Torres hangs motionless, blood pooling beneath the chair. His breathing comes in wet, rattling gasps - Father's hammer did more damage than intended. As always.

I check my watch. Two hours and seventeen minutes wasted. With proper technique, I could have extracted the information with minimal cleanup required. Now the concrete will need resurfacing to remove the stains.

My fingers trace the intricate engravings on the watch face. Mother understood efficiency. She taught me chess, showed me how to think ten moves ahead while others focused on immediate gratification. Father never learned that lesson.

I select a clean scalpel. One precise cut ends Torres's suffering, the blade finding the carotid artery with surgical accuracy. His death is quick, quiet - everything Father isn't capable of anymore.

My phone is already in hand, muscle memory dialing the secure line. "Meeting. One hour. The usual location." I end the call before Carmine can respond. He knows better than to ask questions. That's why he's one of the few that knows what's coming.

Blood seeps into the cuffs of my dress shirt. I'll need to change before the meeting. The watch catches my eye again as I roll down my sleeves. Mother's voice echoes in my mind. " Appearances matter, piccolo. Control what they see."

I straighten my collar, movements mechanical. The crew will fall in line - they always do. Fear is more reliable than loyalty. Father's time approaches its end, like the steady ticking of my watch. The family needs precision, not passion. Evolution, not erosion.

My reflection in the warehouse window shows nothing. No tension, no anticipation. Just empty blue eyes and perfect posture. Mother would be proud.

I dial another number. "Clean-up required. Full disposal." The watch gleams under fluorescent lights as I check the time again. Everything proceeds according to schedule.

Then, I head to meet Carmine, Bas, Mickey, and Ace. The only ones that I trust enough to let know my plans - but that's as far as that goes. They give me updates, and I tell them to keep their mouths shut.

Back in my office, I study the surveillance photos spread across my mahogany desk. She is the reason that my father's life is coming to an abrupt end. He can't seem to do one thing right, and I am tired of waiting on it. So, it's time to take action.

Maria's face stares back at me from a dozen angles - her warm brown eyes filled with fear, thick curls disheveled, designer clothes wrinkled from rough handling. Enzo Rossi's tattooed arm appears in the corner of one frame, his grip tight on her elbow as he escorts her into the Cappalletti safehouse. At least she doesn't look hurt.

The crystal tumbler beside me remains untouched, unlike my father who hurls another bottle against the wall down the hall. His slurred curses about Giovanni's latest rejection echo through the building. Three weeks of failed negotiations, each one pushing him closer to the edge I've carefully crafted. I just have to finish slotting my loyalties or I'll have a bit of a war on my hands.

The change of power in the families is always messy, even if a don is retiring. When his son kills him…

Well, we'll see if I need to prove how true my reputation is at that point.

I trace Maria's features in the closest photo. She looks like my mother, not in the features since they weren't technically related, but in the softness in her features and those kind eyes. It makes childhood memories rattle in the back of my mind.

"You ungrateful bastards!" Father's voice booms. "I'll kill every last one of you!"

My fingers brush over my watch face, its steady ticking a counterpoint to his chaos. This is how he handles his position, instead of cutting deals that will actually save his own niece. We have the location of the warehouse she's in - though I'm certain she's been moved based on these photos - and he's arguing with the Don over territory. He thinks he can acquire the place they are holding her. I know what a waste that tactic is.

The corner of my mouth lifts slightly as another crash echoes down the hall. Father's deteriorating control, my growing support, the brewing war with the Cappallettis - each piece slides into position with mechanical precision.

I gather the photos into a neat stack, aligning their edges with mathematical care. The watch gleams as I check the time - right on schedule. Standing, I straighten my jacket and collect my keys. Tomorrow will bring another failed negotiation, another step closer to the inevitable conclusion.

No one will care he's dead when they all want him gone after all.