Chapter Eleven
LUCA
He didn’t finish eating lunch. The words keep echoing in my head as I take a drag from my Toscano.
After two weeks, I know most of Art’s annoying quirks and astonishing preferences.
Constantly munching on food is essential to him, and he rarely leaves any behind.
But when I left, I saw the half-full bowl of spaghetti on the kitchen island.
Why do I keep thinking about that? I walked out of my condo, with him gazing at me, his lower lip pushed out and an almost yearning look in his eyes, silk nightgown open, showing his alluring, naked body.
I tried, and failed, not to drink it in, how could I not when I remembered how prettily it breaks under me.
Fucking him bareback is fucking amazing. But pounding him through my cum, knowing I made him soaked, makes me want to hit my chest and roar with satisfaction. I let out a breath and shake my head, feeling my cock hardening. What the actual fuck?
It feels like I’m always ready these days, dick heavy and throbbing. I shouldn’t like that Art craves it as much as I do. But I do. I like it a fucking lot. Just how I liked what he whispered to me when he thought I was asleep.
Jesus, it’s a total mindfuck.
I spent my whole life hating his family, and yet here I am, thinking about what he said. Words that I would normally let slide right past me reached and clanged inside, in a place I didn’t even know still existed.
I inhale the smoke deep in my lungs. I hate this, whatever it is he created inside me. I hate him. I still do, same as always. So what is going on here? Fucking shit! I drop the cigar on the floor and stomp on it just as I hear Marco’s raised voice.
“Is that SGI? Or is that fucker really on fire?” He points at the burning corpse behind me. It has finally stopped moving.
In our line of work, witnessing something like this isn’t common, but not rare either.
I do what I’m ordered to keep the family safe.
It was ingrained in me since I was a kid.
Nevertheless, every time I kill someone, I lose a little piece of my soul that I’ll never get back.
When you are raised Catholic, sinning and guilt become part of your everyday life.
The smell of charred meat fills the warehouse, annoying me to no end, and I signal Jeff to open a window.
“Fabrizio Turi asked for a favor,” I explain.
“The mayor’s assistant?” Marco raises his brow in surprise.
“That burning piece of shit got out of jail on a technicality after brutally raping his wife.” He was the son of a billionaire, entitled, perverted prick. This wasn’t the first time his rich daddy paid for a get-out-of-jail-free card.
There’s no selfless reason behind the killing. It’s not a vigilante quest—even though I enjoyed torturing the vile piece of shit—there’s no balancing the tip of the justice scale. We have ulterior motives to help.
Marco spits on the ground with disgust. “Is that his dick?”
I nod, glancing at the bloody appendage on the floor. “Turi asked Seb to cut it off before turning him into a torch. I’m just following orders.”
“Amen.” He sniffs, lighting a cig. “Having the mayor’s assistant’s gratitude could be beneficial for us. Seb never does something for nothing.”
“Neither do you,” I remind him.
He flips me off. “Is that the Enzino runner?” he asks.
I aim my knife at the dirtbag tied to the chair on the other side, who beat up Art and then ran away. “Yeah,” I growl, sending a murderous glare his way.
Filippo and Ryan grabbed him out of a bar an hour ago; that’s why I had to leave Art to come here.
I thought about bringing him here, but violence doesn’t seem to be up his alley.
He can’t even defend himself—even though those teeth of his are sharp.
I still have the bite marks on my skin to prove it.
But it makes me wonder what other things he doesn’t have in common with his family?
He’s always been Enzino’s black sheep, and isn’t that a good thing?
I stalk toward Enzino’s man, and he whimpers at the dark look on my face.
“Don’t worry, motherfucker, he’ll make sure you tell us everything we need to know,” Marco explains to him, making him shiver with fear.
I stop near the table and grab the hammer, leaving my knives for later. I don’t crave the adrenaline rush that comes with killing another living being like some other mobsters do. But the angry beast inside me likes to be drenched in the blood of others as well as its own.
“I know nothing. I swear,” the guy cries, glancing at the tool in my hand. He is already scared shitless. Good. But I need more. I need to see terror to feed the beast.
“I-I’m only a soldier. They don’t tell me nothing,” he repeats. The stench of sweat and cheap booze is repulsive on him.
“Your nothings are unreliable shit to us,” Marco states, tossing the butt of his cigarette at the guy. It bounces against his torso and drops on the floor.
“Please. I swear.”
Marco suddenly wears his gold knuckles, he kisses one of the crosses carved on the top, and then delivers a punch across his face, sending a spray of blood over the floor with a couple of teeth rolling.
I sigh at him.
He raises his hand in the air. “You are not the only one in need of venting. Fly’s fucking cat is driving me crazy.”
Like I give a fuck about that. Even though I know exactly what he means. Nacho is a horny demon.
The Enzino man spits blood on the floor, hitting my new shoes.
“Is this about Arturo Enzino?”
“Nobody takes from me.” My voice is quick and centered.
“I-I didn’t know he was with you.” He whimpers. “Don Jack thought he was just shacking up with one of his fucks. He told me to grab his son and bring him to the house.” He futilely pulls against the chains, restraining his torso and arms.
The memory of Art’s swollen eye and cut cheek makes me grit my teeth. I lift the hammer and in one swift movement, drop it on his ankle, crushing it. I hear the bones crunch, then his wailing. I glance at the mangled joint for a moment before I turn toward his other ankle.
“Fuck, wait! N-no! I didn’t know he was with you. I swear!” he screams, spitting and crying. Eyes wide with fear.
As if crushing crab shells and not human bones, I deliver a second blow, showing no emotion whatsoever. The disturbing sound of bones snapping out of place is drowned out by the fucker’s loud groans.
“Wh-why aren’t you…saying anything?” he sobs.
“Oh, that’s Scarface's way.”
I growl at Marco’s taunt. I fucking hate that nickname. So much I’d accept Art’s stupid ones instead. All of them. Even though now that I think about it, when we’ve fucked lately, all he’s called me is baby or Luca. And I don’t fucking hate that.
I drop the hammer on the floor, the loud thud makes the guy jump and whimper.
I move to the table again and grab a knife, the bigger one, serrated.
It slices through materials like a saw rather than a push cut.
It will help to turn off my damn brain. When I turn, Marco has his gun pointed at the idiot’s knee. What now?
“Which leg?” he asks, moving the gun muzzle from one to the other.
“No, please.”
“I wasn’t asking you!” He hits the fucker’s head with the butt of his Glock.
“Just shoot him in the leg.” I huff.
“I’ll fucking do it, but which one?”
The Enzino guy starts pleading again, but we both tune him out.
“Both legs.” I shrug, since I don’t give a fuck.
“Why the fuck both?” He lowers the gun and turns to look at me.
“You can shoot him in both knees if you prefer. It’ll make sure he won’t run again.”
He looks down at the broken ankles and then raises a questioning brow at me. When I don’t say anything, he nods. “Okay.” He raises his Glock and fires two shots that spear right through the guy’s knees.
“Ahhhhh. God!” He sobs and cries.
“They aren’t listening, you asshole!” Marco barks at him.
“They?”
Marco shrugs. “Fly taught me how not to assume. The importance of the use of right pronouns and other shit like that.”
Who would have thought that such a sweet guy could change a cold-hearted Mafia boss? Art’s smiling face pops into my head for a moment, before I shove it away.
I grab the fucker’s hand, and when he balls up his fingers, I look at Marco.
He uses his gold knuckles on the fucker’s gut twice before he loosens his fist. I can finally slice his pinky finger now.
The blade is sharper than I thought.This is my interrogation MO, cutting fingers, slicing, stabbing, that’s why it unnerves and enrages me how someone went and used it on Doppi’s son, trying to frame me for his death.
We are still trying to find the owner of that damn little horn charm that was near the dead body.
“Is it a contest, like keep the other four?” Marco sniffs, looking down at the remaining fingers.
“Please. Please…I’ll do whatever you want.” The fucker is finally begging not for his life but for a quick death, like all the people I interrogate do. This is when I know he’s ready to talk.
“Mario. Enzino,” I growl his fucking name, stirring all the hate I hold inside me.
“He-he…I saw him.” His eyes are drooping—he’s lost a lot of blood.
I slap his face. “Where?”
His eyes widen and focus on me. “At his father’s place. Yesterday.”
The asshole is in New York. “And?” When he doesn’t answer, I start slicing another finger.
“Stooooop!” he screams, eyes darting right and left. “They…were arguing about Coretti’s marriage deal. Mario was-was against it. He didn’t…want Art to get married.”
“Why?” Marco asks.
“I don’t know!” the fucker cries out pathetically. Drool dripping down his chin. “I swear.”
“What else?” Marco insists.
“Don Jack got angry at Mario for-for…coming to New York too-too soon. He wanted him to wait until after…t-the wedding. But Mario didn’t care. He stormed out, and that’s all. It’s all. All!”
“Where is he?” I grab his hair and yank his head back. But I can see that he’s about to faint.
“I don’t…don’t.”