Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
V incent
Jesus Christ, all I planned on doing was talking to her. But then I walked in and saw her fucking naked with that gorgeous ass in the air, and I lost all rational thought. It probably followed all of my blood—straight to my dick.
I have never been so pissed at a phone in my goddamned life. If it had been anyone other than Marco calling, I would have broken the fucking thing and buried my face between her thighs instead.
“Jesus, what pissed you off?” Marco says in lieu of a greeting when I walk into the dockside warehouse.
“You do realize I’m the fucking boss, right?”
He whistles and then gives a little bow. “Apologies, Don De Luca.” We’re alone, save for the unfortunate fellow tied to the chair, but if he were anyone other than my brother, I’d be seriously tempted to shoot him.
Marco walks up to the man, the same bouncer we planned on chatting with last night, albeit slightly worse for wear. He’s lost a bit of blood, and apparently a finger. Marco taps his cheeks.
“Wake up, sweetheart, you have a visitor.”
The man opens his swollen eyes and looks at me. Marco makes a dramatic show of pulling out a set of brass knuckles for each of us.
“D… don… De Lucca,” the man stutters.
I squat down in front of the man. “You have any idea how deep the pile of shit you’re in is?”
“Dddooonnn—”
“Shut the fuck up, you blubbering piece of crap!” Marco slaps the back of his head, cutting off whatever begging he had planned. It’s our patented bad guy/worse guy move.
“So you’re a grown ass man—you are a man, right? Marco, anyone check to see if this sack of shit is actually a man?”
“You know boss, maybe that’s the problem.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, boss, I think so. Cause I don’t see no reason a real man would be hitting a woman.”
He mumbles something, and I hold my hand up to silence him.
“Anyway, as I was saying. I don’t see any fucking reason for a man to be beating his woman.”
“Me neither, boss.”
“You have any fucking useful thing to say to me, shitsack?”
“Rumors! It’s just rumors!”
“Start talking, asshole.”
“There’s—there’s another family that’s got plans, but I don’t know nothing specific. It’s whispers and shit.”
“Who’s whispering, Jimmie?” I ask.
“I don’t know! I swear.”
“You know what? I believe you, Jimmie. I do.”
He relaxes visibly. It’s basically the same story he gave Marco earlier.
Marco drops two five-gallon buckets in front of him and then comes back with a wheelbarrow of concrete.
“Bbbbuuuuutttt you said you believed me!” he shrieks.
“Oh, Jimmie, I do believe you. These,” I tap a bucket with my shoe, “are because no one beats their woman so long as I’m in fucking charge.”
After we’re done fitting Jimmie for his new shoes and leave them to set, I turn to Marco.
“He say anything else before I got over here?”
“More of the same, rumor this, hint of that. Nothing, ah concrete, so to speak.” He chuckles at his own pun. “Minus one thing, while attempting to both share enough to keep me from killing him for wife beating but not kill him for being a fucking rat, he slipped something and then backpedaled. Hard.”
“Yeah?”
“Rizzuto.”
I stop cold. “What the fuck? You sure he said Rizzuto?”
“You used to be married to his fucking daughter. Yeah, I know what I fucking heard.” Marco scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair.
“There hasn’t been a Rizzuto in this fucking city in a decade,” I tell him.
“Oh, well then, I’m sure he pulled that incredibly specific last name out of thin air,” my brother retorts.
“Fuck. See what you can find out.”
I climb back into my black Lincoln Navigator, which has been heavily modified to accommodate the armored panels and reinforced glass.
Rizzuto. Fuck.
I quit smoking years ago, but suddenly regret the decision. It would be concerning in and of itself, but there have been some unusual changes in the cash flow, some business deals that have fallen through. It’s not unheard of, but I’m suddenly suspicious as fuck.
I pull my phone out and shoot off a text.
How is it going?
You kidnapped the girl, how do you think?
You’re an asshole for a priest, you know that.
Show some respect, I used to change your diapers.
Fucker .
You’d better bring food. Unless you plan to torture her with your cooking.
Shit. I send off a quick message to have one of the guys resolve the food situation.
I’m halfway home when my phone rings again. Gino, my baby cousin with an ego problem. He’s not a bad kid, but he’s young, dumb, and wants to be more important than he is.
“That fucking Irish bastard threatened to blow off my kneecaps!” he yells when I answer.
“Jesus, Gino, I have enough bullshit to deal with. Stop picking fights with your dick.”
“But—but—” he stutters.
“Leave the fucking Irish alone,” I say, and then I hang up on him. The last thing I need is to have to deal with Sean O’Connell. He’s a stubborn bastard and a bit prickly sometimes, but he’s not a psycho. It’s guaranteed that Gino did something to deserve it.
I finally fight my way through the afternoon traffic and pull into the garage. Aldo is again standing watch outside the door.
“Evening, boss,” he tells me.
“Evening, Aldo. How’s your wife doing? It’s almost time, isn’t it?”
He smiles. “Yes, sir, two more weeks.” His pride is obvious.
“This one a boy?” I ask.
“No, thank God. I think my wife would kill me if I gave her a fourth son. A little girl. Claudia.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “That’s a good name.”
Inside, I find my brother, the priest, watching Game of Thrones re-runs.
“Seriously?”
“What?” he asks innocently.
I shake my head and walk to the bar, pouring a drink. “How did it go?”
“She’s smart. Not having a meltdown. Sassy. She’s in the bedroom.” He points off to the guest room.
“You know she threw a Bible at my head?”
He fakes an Irish accent of all things. “Is that what I need to try to get some scripture into your life, my child?”
“Fuck you, Alessandro.” Then I sigh. “But thank you for spending the day.”
“Anytime.” He hugs me, then gathers his coat.
I head to my room and strip out of my clothes. Getting into the shower, I notice the collection of toiletries spread across the empty shelves and smile. Good girl.
I finish my shower and dress, changing into a more casual pair of dark jeans and a long sleeve black t-shirt. I’ve never been a big fan of slippers, so I put on a pair of comfortable, well-worn leather shoes.
Aldo knocks on the door. I find him standing with one of the younger kids, who is holding a rather large bag of takeout from what I consider to be the best steakhouse in the city. I take the food, a bottle of wine, and two glasses up to the rooftop garden, and then turn on the propane heaters ringing the table. Then I come back and knock on the guest room door.
She opens the door hesitantly. “You learned how to knock!” she says with mock excitement.
I take a deep breath. “I have dinner ready.”
I can see the conflict run across her face. Finally, she gives a resigned sigh and follows me up to the roof.