Chapter Eight #2
Is he talking about Doppi’s son? That dead boy?
Why is a little gold horn pendant related to the body?
Wait a second. What did Rami tell me? That the body was found on Leone’s turf, that it had multiple knife wounds, and that it was not reported.
I know that Luca is trying to find out who left the corpse there.
Every-fucking-thing points to Mario, but let’s be real, killing and ditching the body on their turf would be suicide for him right now.
My father told him to stay under the radar until after the wedding.
But the main question is, why would Mario do that?
He doesn’t give a fuck about Leone or Coretti.
My brain is short-circuiting. I’m not a fucking detective, and this is not a Scooby-Doo episode.
I always hated mysteries and secrets. Who the fuck cares?
This is not the right day for all the thinking.
I go to the bathroom to wash up a little and check my phone.
I quickly tell Aurora not to worry about the club since I talked with the manager the other night, and that the wedding is still on… probably.
Sometimes I wonder whether it’s better to have a quick death than a torturous life?
I head back to the bedroom and find Luca wearing a floral-patterned black blazer with peak lapels, classic and sophisticated.
The necktie I chose for him looks great under it—and it’ll feel amazing on my skin later.
The mobster certainly has taste. I throw myself on the bed and then roll over, belly down to look at him—chin propped on my hands, feet crossed in the air. I’m suddenly curious about him.
“Given a choice, would you rather have your brain in a beetle’s body or a beetle’s brain in your body?” I ask, and as always, he does the opposite of what I expect. He actually answers.
“My brain in a beetle’s body.” That’s it. No explanation.
“That’s preposterous. Everybody would try to step on you that way!”
“The alternative is being committed to a mental institution.” His rational answers annoy me.
“But you would still have your looks!”
“You may find this hard to believe, but I don’t fucking care.”
“Noooo, really?” I say in mock surprise.
He sighs.
“So you’ll be a dung beetle. You know the one that rolls his own shit around and eats it. Ohhh, that makes me hungry.”
Did I just make him snort? This time, I don’t care. Where did I see those take-out menus the other day? I slide down the bed and move toward the kitchen.
“Stephen King would be afraid to look into your mind,” I think I hear him mutter.
“Are you a flat or folded pizza eater, boo-boo?” I ask, finding the take-out menu from Pasta I can do it again.
I just need to find the right tool. At least I’m not handcuffed.
I look around. There are snacks on the nightstand, but my stomach is not interested now.
It’s worse than I imagined. Luca is hunting for blood. My family blood. And I’m standing right in the middle of his crimson path.
Luca
“How can I use the brat as bait to get to Mario?” I hiss, feeling a bitter taste rising in my throat when the words come out.
Seb makes a noncommittal sound as the car rolls down the street. He appeared outside the warehouse just as I finished there and told me he’d drive me home.
“How did that happen?” He gestures at the bloody pocket square wrapped around my hand.
I shrug. I got distracted, that’s how it happened. I was thinking about him, Enzino, and the way he pleaded with me when I pinned him against the wall. Fuck!
Seb passes me a single wet tissue. I yank it off his fingers, sending him a questioning look.
“For your necktie.”
I look down at the white fabric soaked in red blood—not my blood—the shirt surely has splatters as well, but it’s not visible on the dark fabric. “And you think this will help clean it?”
“No. Use it to cover it,” he explains.
Right, stains are unacceptable to him, among other things. I let go of the tissue and instead loosen the tie before pulling it off. I don’t know why I let Enzino choose it for me. I knew where I was going, and white is the worst color to wear for a bloody interrogation.
“Are Mario and Arturo really that close?”
Fuck if I know. “Mario is the one messaging him about once a month, and the brat answers with monosyllabic replies.”
“My informants all said the brothers are quite…attached.”
The idea of them spending time together turns me livid.
“He told me he hates Mario,” I say out loud, finding the urban landscape very entertaining at the moment.
“And do you think he was sincere?”
I crack my neck before answering, “He’s an Enzino.”
“Ah,” is his sole reply. What the hell does that mean? I have no idea.
I order Gianni, Seb’s driver, to turn left to avoid the evening traffic on Eighth Avenue.
“I thought about it, and the only way to make Mario Enzino come out is by letting Arturo go,” Seb suddenly states.
My whole being rejects the idea so strongly that I have to grit my teeth not to voice it. But still some comes out. “Wouldn’t that be damaging for us?”
Seb’s intense stare pierces mine. “I think not,” he states.
I don’t know what he’s scheming, but I’ve witnessed his mastermind skills enough times to realize I just need to do what he says. Jack Enzino thinks he’ll get enough weapons and power to crush us after the wedding, but our deal with the Yakuza is finalized, and we’ll meet with the Bratva tomorrow.
Still, I want the brat to stay a little longer.
Why? Because I just started fucking him, I need more time to actually destroy him.
To me, he is nothing but a whore for cock, filled with issues that Freud himself wouldn’t be able to fix.
He didn’t have the perfect life I thought he had.
Sure, he has money. He was born into that, but at what high cost?
He still acts like being kidnapped isn’t a big deal, and at times, he seems to think dying isn’t the worst thing that could happen to him.
Is it because of the scars on his back? Damn it.
That’s not something I should be concerned about.
I fuck him, that’s all. So many times I lost count, and still I want more of that ass.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll let him do whatever he wants. And today I reminded him.