Chapter 40
Luciano
It took us only two days to kill the bulk of Russo's men and track down Russo’s oldest son, Marco.
They had all gone into hiding, running from the war they started, letting their men die.
We found him in Gainesville. He wasn't just running from us after I'd sent those picture to his wife. Her father wanted his head too.
He had been in cheap motel. Room 207.
Marco Russo was supposed to be the smartest son. Not smart enough.
We had him gagged and tied in the trunk of the SUV within five minutes of breaching the door.
Now we were back in the storage facility Saint owned. There were concrete floors. Hooks in the ceiling. A drain in the middle of the floor. Everything you needed to strip the truth out of a man.
Marco was naked, zip-tied to a steel chair and blood was dripping from the shallow cuts on his thigh.
Saint paced behind him, rolling his sleeves up like he was prepping to gut a fish. Brooker sat on a crate in the corner, smoking a blunt and watching like he was waiting for his turn.
I stood directly in front of Angelo.
He was breathing hard, eyes flicking between the three of us. But I could already tell… he was ready to give in.
“Let’s not waste time. Where are they?”
He laughed. Coughed. Spit blood. “I’ll never tell you shit.”
I nodded. Then I jabbed my hunting knife I was holding into his forearm.
His scream echoed off the concrete walls.
Saint stepped up and slapped him hard across the face with the flat of his blade. “This isn’t even torture yet. This is encouragement. Tell us. ”
“I’m not te—” Angelo started. I pulled my knife from his arms and slammed it down into the meatiest part of his thigh.
He shrieked.
I crouched down and whispered near his ear.
“Marco. Think very carefully. You’ don’t have to die tonight. What happens next depends on how useful you become.”
He whimpered.
“I—I don’t know where my father is.”
I said nothing.
“But my little brother—he’s in Sumter. In a safe house in the woods.”
The silence was heavier than the blood on the floor.
“You gave him up,” Brooker said, standing. “You really gave up your own baby brother and we didn’t even work that hard for it.” He sounded disgusted.
Young Russo shook his head frantically. “You made me.”
Saint spat on the floor. “I’d die before I gave up blood.”
“That’s because you have something resembling loyalty,” I said. “He doesn’t.”
Then I put two bullets in his head.