Marino (Sinful New York #2)
1. Massimo
Chapter 1
Massimo
T he stench of sweat, blood, and urine permeates the air, mingling with the cries of a broken man. As he begs for his life, I’ve never felt more alive. I pace around the room, the evidence of his suffering splattered across my clothes.
In hindsight, dealing with this in the office at Aces wasn’t a smart idea. I’ll need to get a new rug and have the room deep-cleaned to eradicate any traces of him once he’s dead. The cost is barely a dip in the ocean, considering how much this man owes me, but it’s the inconvenience that fuels every swing of my fist to his face. The crunch of his breaking bones serves as my payment, but we both know that no matter how many bones I break, it will never cover his debt.
Daniele, my cousin Romeo’s underboss, lounges on the navy-blue velvet couch on the far side of the room, his arms spread across the back. After the attacks sustained on my family over the past six, or so, weeks, Daniele stayed behind, while Romeo returned to Sicily.
Something akin to discomfort—or possibly judgment—flickers in his gaze when I glance his way, but he shuts it down almost as quickly as it appears. We don’t always see eye to eye on how matters should be handled. I am more hands-on and tend to take action, whereas Daniele is more reserved.
Leonardo, my underboss, is away tracking down a runaway housekeeper—Haven—and we’ve needed all hands on deck. There is bound to be more bloodshed. For one, Elio Morretti, one of the men we believe to be behind the attacks, has gone into hiding and we are still trying to find out who in my own house was feeding him information.
As if all of that wasn’t enough, I still have legitimate businesses to run, like my club, Aces, and not so legitimate ones, collecting debts owed to me by men who do not know their limits or abilities. Which is how Alvin Davis has ended up here, tied to a chair, begging for one more chance to repay me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marino.” Trembling words cut through my thoughts. I turn toward the low-life who’s pleading with red-rimmed eyes and tear-soaked cheeks. “If I didn’t think it was a sure thing, I never would have borrowed money from you,” he whines, as if that changes anything.
Smoothing a blood-covered hand over my stubbled jaw, I acknowledge the adrenaline coursing through my veins, sharpening my every move and feeding the chaos coiled in my chest.
This isn’t about Alvin anymore .
It’s everything . The pain I am inflicting on him is an amalgamation of the weeks of pressure, the deaths of many of my men, unanswered questions, betrayal, the loss of thousands of dollars’ worth of goods, and the gnawing doubt that we’ll never find the people behind the attacks.
Alvin’s head rolls forward in defeat and possibly shame. A string of saliva mixed with blood hangs from his mouth, dripping onto the fabric of the chair visible between his legs. I grind my jaw, the sight pissing me off more than it should.
Moving around the room, I stretch out my tired arm, preparing to continue my assault on him. I come to a stop in front of him, the tips of our shoes mere inches apart. Tilting my head, I stare down at him, sizing him up like a predator hunting its prey.
My sudden movement as I reach out makes him flinch. A rush of adrenaline races through me and I don’t bother to contain the wolfish smirk pulling at my lips. The power I wield isn’t something I take lightly, but it sure is fun watching petty pieces of shit like Alvin cower at my feet.
Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I yank his head back, savoring the startled cry that escapes him. Pathetic . His eyes are glassy, but in the depths, I see the terror dancing there. Hell, I feel it as his body trembles in my grip. The fear reflected only fuels the primal, sick thrill that burns through me. It’s the perfect fuel for the embers of anger and frustration that have been simmering away since the first attack. I thrive off it and it flows through my body like blood.
With my eyes locked on his, I pull my arm back and watch as he tenses, squeezing his eyes shut like the coward we both know he is. I connect my fist with his cheek. A loud, sickening crack echoes around the room, and Alvin cries out, blood bursting from his mouth and spraying, wet and hot, onto the fabric of my black shirt. He jerks in his chair, gasping for air as crimson paints his lips and gathers on his chin before dripping to the floor below.
“We’re at what some might call an impasse, Alvin.” I push his head away roughly before releasing him. Circling the chair he’s tied to, I adjust the rolled up sleeves of my shirt, straightening them, grateful that my choice in clothing—always black—masks the blood splatters he’s covered me in. “You owe me a lot of money, and yet you’re telling me that you have no way of paying it back.” I rub my hands together, keeping my voice low and lethal. Each word is measured and meant to convey with certainty exactly what is going to happen. “Do you see what my issue is with that? You’re not really leaving me a choice here, Alvin.”
I step forward, the corner of my mouth lifting when his eyes widen. This is a high I could live on . That power, control, the metallic scent, it’s all a reminder of the fact that his life is in my hands, and with a snap of my fingers, he could be gone.
He swallows thickly, adjusting his posture as best as he can, given his restraints. “Please, Mr. Marino. There’s got to be something—anything—I can do. Something I can give you that will clear the debt.” His voice cracks. There’s no mistaking his desperation.
Dragging over a chair, I drop into it and lean back with my legs wide and caging in his own. We stare at each other, his eyes wide and desperate. The silence of my pause hangs heavy between us before I say, “There’s not much you can give me, Alvin .” I spit his name, firing it off of my tongue in disgust.
Does he seriously think that he can give me anything other than his life? Men like Alvin gamble recklessly and not just with their—or in Alvin’s case, my—money, but with lives too. It’s predictable .
There’s a brightness in his gaze that I can’t wait to extinguish. “Whatever it is, I’ll hand it over. No arguments.”
I stare down at my blood-covered hand, flexing it as I inspect the tender and bruised flesh with an air of nonchalance. Holding his gaze, I say, “There’s only one thing I want from you.”
“Anything,” he breathes, his voice quiet, but his hope amplified in the silence of my dimly lit office.
With my best poker face in place, I reply, “You can pay me the half a million dollars that you owe me.”
Alvin deflates before me, blowing out a heavy breath. Fascinated, I watch as any hope leaves him. It’s like snuffing out a light and being drowned in darkness. Hope is an emotion for the na?ve. He’s a fool to think there’s any chance of him leaving here alive if he can’t return to me what is mine tonight .
“Mr. Marino, I’m begging you. Surely, we can set up a payment plan or something.” His desperation reaches new heights as he attempts to shift forward in his seat, his eyes seeking mine out.
I bare my teeth, sitting forward to rest my elbows on my legs and forcing him to lean back. We’re so close that I can smell his fear, mixed with the stench of urine, and I curl my lip in disgust, looking down my nose at him. “This isn’t a fucking bank, Alvin. You can’t ask for an extension on a loan. The moment you walked into my office and asked for that money, you knew what you were getting yourself into.”
I take hold of Alvin’s hand, holding out his pinkie finger. A sick, twisted smile spreads across my face. I can only imagine what he must see. Whatever it is, it has him thrashing around, the zip ties binding him to the chair, digging into his wrists and turning his flesh an even paler shade of white. My grip only tightens, forcing his finger to stay still while the rest of him bucks like a wild beast. Not taking my eyes off him, I pull the cigar cutter from my pocket.
“Please, Mr. Marino. I’m sorry. Don’t do this. Please,” he begs, his pleas falling on deaf ears.
I stand abruptly, my chair falling to the floor with a soft thud, but I don’t pay it any mind. “Unfortunately for you, I can’t cash in your apologies and promises. There’s nothing that you can do that will stop me taking your life. That is the only payment I will accept.”
I slide the cutter over his finger, and smirking, I push the sides together. There’s a slight resistance at first, but with a practiced pressure, the crunch of bone splintering soon sounds around the room; intense and visceral. It collides with the shallow gasps from Alvin’s choked sobs. Something about that sound—discordant, raw, perfect —it’s music to my fucking ears. Alvin’s eyes roll back, his head tilting to the side as his body goes limp.
I step away, admiring the finger on my rug, the steady drip of crimson from the stub on his hand, and the blood seeping into the cream threads. It all adds to the symphony of his pain; of my pleasure.
Lowering into my chair, I wipe the cigar cutter with a handkerchief before pocketing them both. Alvin mumbles nonsensical words, and when I look at Daniele, he shrugs, as in the dark as I am about what he’s saying.
Pulling on the front of Alvin’s shirt, I force him to sit up straighter and demand, “Come on, Alvin.” Slapping his cheek again and again, trying to rouse him, I sneer. “We’re only just getting started. This won’t be what kills you. This is purely for my own entertainment.”
Alvin rolls his head around to look at me, his eyes heavy like he’s seeing through me before he blinks and obviously brings me back into focus as fear carves into his expression. He won’t make it past one hand, let alone both, and his feet. Spoilsport .
“Please,” Alvin rasps. “Mr. Marino, please, there has to be something I can give you?” His breaths come out in a spluttered wheeze, his words barely audible. “S-someone.” He winces as the word leaves his mouth, and I’m certain it’s not from the position he finds himself in, but that he is about to offer up someone that he has no right to barter with. Firming his resolve, he whispers, so faint I almost miss it, “I can give her to you.”
My body stills, the wild energy inside of me calming like we’re stepping into the eye of a storm. I circle his throat in a grip hard enough to feel his pulse hammer under my fingertips. “Her?” I echo, my voice dangerously low. “And who the fuck is ‘her’?”
I apply more pressure in a silent command for him to speak. “My stepdaughter,” he croaks, his voice trembling like a condemned man. The words hang in the air, stark and jagged, cutting through the haze of blood and adrenaline, silencing the promise of his death.
For the first time tonight, I pause.