Chapter 22
Mikhail
“Francesco. Riccardo. Leonardo,” I say, driving my fist through yet another face—an asshole Wolfgang found to be involved with the murder of Massimo. “Are you going to tell me who you work for, or do we need to play Rumpelstiltskin all night? I’m bored.”
A gargled groan. “I already fucking told you. I have no—”
“Yeah, yeah. You have no idea what I’m talking about.” I draw my arm back, plunging it into the sloppy mess again.
Honestly, I’m not even eager to stop, even though I’ve been at the warehouse for the past four hours trying to make him talk. He’s a hard one to crack, I’ll give him that. Unfortunately for him, I have a ton of pent-up energy. Yeah, we’re definitely staying here all night.
“Let me guess. He promised you…money? Immunity for your wife and daughter?” I ask, grabbing the back of his head and yanking it back. With my other hand, I bring a knife under his chin, digging the sharp edge into his skin. “You do know he’s going to kill you when he’s done, right?”
He jerks his head away, spitting blood to the side. “And so will you. Might as well die for something meaningful.”
“Something meaningful,” I echo, letting out a short laugh.
“Then share with me, pray tell, so I can contribute. We’re all trying to earn a place in heaven in the end,” I mock, knowing full well I’ve got a one-way ticket to hell.
Especially after what I did to poor Brady in the alley across from Niko’s club the night he ruined my wife’s dress.
I’m not usually so careless as to take out a man’s intestines on the streets, but I couldn’t help it.
I was too distracted after that damned kiss.
Still am.
Once I got Cecilia back to the estate and made sure she wasn’t hurt, I realized my mistake: I should’ve never taken her out of her perfect little wedding reception. I should’ve never made her step into my world, be around my friends, entice her to kiss me back the way she did—like she loved it.
And yet, a fucked-up part of me is glad I did. Because at least now, I can confirm it’s not just me. We both want this, even if I keep telling myself it’s just a carnal craving.
“It’s not my story to tell,” the guy says, wheezing, reminding me I’ve lost my focus again. Fuck.
“It is, if you care about any of your limbs at all.”
He swallows but otherwise remains quiet, sitting on a chair in the middle of the empty room with his head dangling toward the floor. I let out a dramatic sigh, heading for the metal tray with utensils.
The second I begin sifting through the pliers and scalpels with loud clangs, he starts squirming.
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” I say absently.
“Your plane lands at 3:45 pm. Massimo disappears at five. And then we see you on the security cameras next to his house in LA, all hooded up on a sunny, windless afternoon. Of everyone we showed the footage to, not a single person recognized you. You’re not from around here, nor have we heard of you being involved with any of the criminal families in the country. So…”
I walk around him, bringing the pliers to his mouth.
“You can understand, then, why I’m not going to stop at giving you two black eyes. Whenever you’re ready to talk—” I force his mouth open and grip one of his front teeth with the metal cutters, twisting. But before I pull the tooth out of the cavity, his eyes dart up as he yells for me to stop.
“Oh?” I ask wryly. “Already? There goes the meaningful something you’re fighting for, I guess.”
I remove the pliers, just enough so he can speak. “If I tell you, at least take care of my daughter. She deserves better than the dead-beat father she got.”
“Hmm. Well, money isn’t a problem. But if you’re asking me to babysit, I’m afraid I’m not exactly a role model.”
He huffs out a nervous laugh. “You’re not exactly known for your goodwill either. We heard of you out in Europe—you kill like you’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Because I don’t,” I say, though something rubs me the wrong way as the words leave my mouth, the memory of Cecilia’s sweet tongue wrapped around mine hitting me out of nowhere. “Now, who the fuck sent you to Massimo’s house that day?”
“Five million, delivered to my ex-wife at my funeral. Say yes, and I’ll tell you who ordered the kill…”
“How about for every second you waste my fucking time, you lose one. We’re currently at four. Three. Two—”
A grunt. “H-He’s not a Capo. And up until recently, he didn’t exist. Kept his identity hidden.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he winces, “he’s close to the Ferraras. Like, very fucking close.”
I blink slowly behind him, taken aback by the information. Suddenly, the symbol left at the murder scenes makes a whole lot of sense. Always family. “Keep talking,” I nudge him.
“Name’s Remus. Grew up on a farm in Naples with a drunk and his wife. He didn’t know he was Antonio’s son until recently. Now that he does, he’s coming for his business. Kept tabs on everyone here so no one sniffed him out before he set his plan in motion.”
“That’s why he killed Massimo,” I say, piecing things together. “And the Capo before him. He knew they were going for the same thing, so he simply removed his competition.”
He nods. “We were neighbors. Grew up together. And when he told me his plans, he said he’d take care of my family if I helped him.”
“That’s your good cause? Helping a nobody become a criminal?” I snort.
“You don’t know what he’s been through. He sacrificed everything for this, and—”
“And you just fucking betrayed him. Some neighbor you are.” I let go of his jaw, rounding his chair to face him. “And where is he now, this Remus?”
“Maybe Naples. Maybe on the West Coast, in San Maleno. He was smart enough not to tell me,” he mutters, regret growing on his splintered mouth like mold on a damp surface. I have zero sympathy. You don’t betray a brother on a whim and then get to feel sad about it.
“Well, then. We’re down to zero million. Nah, don’t frown. I’m doing your daughter a favor,” I say. “Better if she grows up with a backbone, since, clearly, she’s not getting one from you.”
Then, I shove a bloody rag into his mouth, texting Rodion to come get rid of him. I’ve lost my patience and my interest. Besides, Wolfgang will want to know the intel sooner rather than later.
Maybe Remus-sob-story is, indeed, preying on the Italians from San Maleno. In that case, time isn’t only of the essence, but this whole thing got fucking personal.
Because apparently, I have a vengeful brother-in-law, and fuck knows how he feels about the alliance we just formed with the Ferraras.
By the time I get back to Alemont City, it’s snowing. The driveway is already covered in white, and the forest hums with the whooshing of an eager wind.
I still haven’t got out of the car. Looking at this mansion and knowing who’s in there makes me think twice about entering.
Since the wedding night, my mind has been flooded with thoughts…
questions…things I have no business entertaining.
I’m not thinking straight. Yet every second I’m not barging in and pulling my wife into another desperate kiss feels like walking parched through the desert.
Closing my eyes, I let out an exasperated exhale.
If I focus hard enough, I can still taste her on my tongue. She was sweet, and delicate, and had this distinct flavor that’s inherently hers—a combination of her vanilla lip balm and sunshine, the ocean, Cecilia.
In that one moment when I had my arms around her, she wasn’t terrified of being mine.
Not anymore. She came with me to that party with not a clue about where I was taking her.
She hung out with Rodion and Niko, surrounded by a bunch of other criminals, and never even flinched.
Not like she did before, when I first brought her here.
Even if she was born into the mafia, she’s been more sheltered than any girl I’ve met in our world, and she’s still braver than most, eager to explore and have fun. I hate that watching her experience my dark corner of the universe with so much awe is suddenly a sight to behold.
And she has nothing—nothing. I’ve taken her away from her passions and her routines. She fucking loves her routines. She used to go for walks by the beach every Sunday morning, visited Lucia Donatello every Thursday, had two rounds of piano practice at home—one in the morning, one in the afternoon.
I know all this and more because I’ve watched her, seen her, understood her.
Only to rob her of everything.
Here, she’s dragged from place to place, given new bedrooms, no piano to play, a house full of people she doesn’t know, and she’s still fucking finding it in herself to be by my side when I’m on the brink of death, when I don’t deserve it.
Part of me feels an annoying shred of guilt. But the other, fucked-up part—the one that owns most of me—knows better. Lately, the balance has shifted in her favor. This whole thing is probably about settling the debt I accumulated, nothing more.
Still, for some reason, no matter how much I offer her, it never feels like I’m doing enough to get ahead of this game we play.
“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself, getting out into the cold air as I slam the car door shut behind me.
Cracking my neck muscles, I pin a cigarette between my lips and light it up as I make my way into the foyer.
I don’t know where Cecilia is, nor should I wonder.
This wing alone is a maze of rooms and corridors, which is why I’m completely fucking stunned when I see her peep her pretty head out through the cracked door of the library.
And she’s smiling.
A wave of something flammable courses through me, making every atom in my body come to a halt. Her chestnut hair is loose down her back, and she’s wearing long stockings under an oversized sweater that looks like…mine.
Jesus fucking Christ.
She looks so beautiful and, dare I say, happy to see me.