Chapter 21
GIULIO
The grass is greener where you bury the bodies.
I survey the man strapped to the table before me.
His eyes are bulging beneath the leather strap that holds his head in place.
A second strap is woven between his lips, keeping the muffled screaming to a minimum.
It’s my saving grace. Listening to men cry and beg for their lives when I have no intention of sparing them only serves to get on my nerves.
Unfortunately, that second strap is going to have to come out now because I’ve got questions that need to be answered.
A sharp nod to Alonzo has the other man stepping forward to remove it. Cracked lips press together, and then the man shivering on the table licks them, trying to wet them for several seconds before I finally get fed up and step up to his side.
Shoving in his face the morgue shot taken of the man Daisy killed, I ask my first question. “Who is this man to you?”
He looks at the image before his eyes skitter away. I continue holding it. His attention fixes on it and then repeats the process. He definitely knows the man. I shake the image. “Who is he?” I demand.
A tongue comes out and touches his lower lip. If he doesn’t give me what I want, I plan to cut that tongue out. “I—I don’t know,” the man—Gerard de Aldo—stutters and blinks rapidly.
Lie.
With a sigh, I put the picture down and step away, nodding to the other man across from Alonzo and me.
Tommaso steps up, his shirt removed and replaced with a black leather apron like those worn by our local butcher.
His long, sandy hair, lighter than most Italian’s—but then, he’s a half blood according to Don Luciani—is held in a low ponytail at the base of his skull.
He reaches for the metal instrument tray beside the torture table and holds up a hunting knife with a serrated edge.
That’s going to hurt. Gerard begins to cry.
Big, fat tears rise up from the depths of his eyes and roll down his cheeks. “P-please, please, I—I don’t,” he hiccups and continues, “I d-don’t know anything.”
Tommaso’s expression doesn’t change as he quickly and methodically removes the man’s clothes, cutting away his shirt with the knife before moving on to the man’s pants.
By the time he has his boxers left, the man on the table is sobbing openly.
He’s definitely not one of Cesari’s top brass.
Then again, we knew that. The uppermost members of the Cesari Syndicate are too difficult to get to without careful planning. That’s not why he’s here.
This man, Gerard, is here because he was seen with the deceased quite often. There is photographic evidence of his many nights spent in bars and clubs in Cesari’s territory with the dead man at his side.
Now that Tommaso has finished the start of Gerard’s mind fuck, I step back up to the table and hold the picture out again.
“I want a name,” I say this time. I wiggle the paper back and forth.
“You’re not protecting him. As you can tell, he’s already dead.
You will be, too, unless you answer my questions. ”
As if a bolt of courage overtakes the man, Gerard strains against his bonds and hocks a ball of spit at me. I dodge to the side, avoiding the disgusting animal reaction. “Fine,” I snap, “then I’ll see if you’re more open to talking after my friend is done with you.”
Alonzo shoves the strap of leather back between Gerard’s lips just as Tommaso reaches for a set of pliers.
With the toe of my shoe tapping incessantly against the stone floor of the warehouse, I wait and watch as Tommaso expertly removes several of the man’s fingernails before moving on to his toenails.
When all ten are gone, Tommaso moves on to the bolt cutter.
Heavy breaths and muted screaming start up all over again as he takes it to Gerard’s pinkies. First one and then the other. I have half a mind to let Tommaso take all of his fingers and toes before I stop him, but I’d rather have the information.
The second he sees me move, Tommaso finishes with Gerard’s left pinkie toe. The fleshy plop of it hitting the floor makes me wish I could immediately jump into a shower following this. It’s part of the job, yes, but that makes it no less filthy.
Alonzo removes the strap of leather to Gerard’s sobs and hacking coughs. Thirty seconds later, I hold the picture up again. “Ready to answer me?” I ask.
“H-his name’s Monty,” Gerard says, breathing heavily as his face pinches tight in pain. Yeah, having all of your nails ripped free and some pinkies and toes removed will do that to you.
“He works for Cesari,” I say. It’s not a question, but Gerard nods quickly.
“O-older than h-he looks,” Gerard says.
Then Dante might have been right—the one who attacked Daisy was likely a part of Vito Cesari’s circle. I lower my arm and look Gerard in the eyes. “What do you know about any hits out on Luciani Family members?”
Brows furrowing despite the pain he’s in, Gerard shakes his head as much as he can in his restraints. “N-no hits.”
“Boss, maybe we should show him—”
“No,” I snap, cutting Alonzo off, already knowing what he’s about to suggest. The thought had crossed my mind for half a second before I’d dismissed it. If we let this guy go, I don’t want him to know what Daisy looks like. He won’t get a picture of her.
“Should I continue?” Tommaso asks.
I shake my head and instead, refocus my attention on Gerard. “My wife was attacked a few weeks ago,” I tell him. “This man,” I pause and hold the picture up again, “tried to kill her.”
Once again, Gerard tries to shake his head. “No!” he cries out. “No! I—I didn’t try to—”
I cut him off as I toss the picture of Monty to Alonzo. “Of course you didn’t try to kill her,” I snap, “but you knew the man who did.”
Setting my hands palms down against the edge of the table, I lean in until I can practically smell the sweat and fear rolling off him in waves.
“If you want to make it out of here alive, you’re going to tell me everything you know about your friend.
Who he hung out with. How many times he met up with the new head of Cesari.
Who he fucked. Who he hated.” I stab him to the table with a dark look.
“You’re going to tell me everything, or else”—I glance pointedly up at Gabe—“I’m going to let my friend here play with you some more. ”
More tears, racking sobs. Annoying half-choked pleas. I close my eyes and inhale through my nose before releasing the air back through my lips. When I open my eyes again, I level him with an indifferent stare.
“You have two options, Gerard,” I say, holding up two fingers. One goes down. “You either talk and live.” The second one goes down. “Or you don’t give me what I want, and you die. Slowly and painfully. It’s your choice.”
Just like that, words spring from Gerard’s dried-out lips. Monty, short for Monticello Bell. Half Italian. Raised outside of New York, but worked under Vito Cesari and, to Gerard’s knowledge, had no contact with the new head.
It doesn’t prove anything, but as I leave the warehouse later and get into the back of a car driven by Alonzo, I wonder if perhaps I’m missing something. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach down and withdraw it, checking caller ID before I hit answer.
“I’m leaving the warehouse now,” I say. “Gerard knew some, but definitely not enough to figure out if the current head is behind Daisy’s attack.”
“I think we can still assume that Cesari was behind Isa’s murder,” Dante says on a sigh.
“Agreed.” The car turns a corner and slows at a stoplight. “What else have you managed to find out?”
“I’ve looked into the new head,” he answers right away.
“Emilio Cesari is Vito Cesari’s first nephew by his sister.
The Lady Cesari died about ten years ago, and Emilio was raised by his uncle.
He’s young for a head—only twenty-seven.
His right hand is a bit older, almost forty.
He wasn’t a part of Vito’s old guard. His name is Leonardo Ventura. ”
Pinching the bridge of my nose between a thumb and forefinger, I try to stave off the headache that threatens to blossom. “Do you think they are the ones after Daisy?” I ask after a beat of silence.
The car moves swiftly into another lane as Dante responds.
“Honestly?” He blows out a breath. “No. From all I can tell, Emilio and Leonardo are doing things differently than his uncle. They’re ruthless, for sure.
They can’t be anything else if they’re going to take over that family, but they’re not as cruel as Vito was. ”
I release my nose and let my head sink back against the seat. “We need to consider that there might be an internal war going on with Cesari,” I say.
“Maybe they think taking out a member of Luciani will be proof enough of power and balls to get them a position they want,” Dante agrees. “Who better than a fairly new member with no actual authority?”
“They have to know that no matter who they attempt to kill, any deaths on our side by a member of Cesari would start an all-out war. Even if I didn’t care for Daisy, it would be the principle of the matter.”
A pause and then, “Even if you didn’t care for Daisy?”
Fuck. I can practically hear my brother’s smile in his tone. “Shut it,” I snap. “Stay on track.”
“I’m not judging you for liking the girl, G,” Dante says instead of following my order. Bastard. “I like her, too, and I assure you that if anyone hurts her, I will gut them like a fucking fish. Just as I know you would.”
Shit, I don’t want to do this with him. Not with the reminder of her attacker still on my mind. Yet… “She’s not used to our world,” I hear myself say before I can stop. “It was foolish to force her to marry me to keep her mouth shut about what she saw.”
“Are you—the great Giulio La Rosa, Luciani’s loyal knight and protector—regretting an action you took to take care of the Family?” Dante’s taunting tone makes me want to pound my fists into his face.
“No, that’s not what I—” But is it? Do I regret marrying Daisy?
An image of her, naked and spread out across my bed, her hair in disarray on my pillows as her breasts bounce up and down, pretty pink nipples tight and teasing as I fuck her, comes to mind.
No, I don’t regret marrying her. If anything, her walking in on Isa’s dead body is one of the best things to come out of Don Luciani’s order to get married.
Without her, I would’ve either ended up married to the cold-as-ice Isa or unpromoted without a wife.
A curse leaves me. “Fuck.”
Over the line, Dante chuckles. “If it helps,” he says, “remember her past. Daisy might have aged out of the system, but once a foster kid, always a foster kid—at least until she finds her family. She’s a lot like you.
If you give her the chance, I think she’ll be just as loyal to the Family and you as you are to Luciani. ”
I can’t stand it, but hope stretches its evil talons through my chest, latching on with little barbs stabbing into my organs and refusing to let go.
Before I can muster a response, I hear three telltale beeps.
One from my phone, one from Alonzo’s, and a third, slightly garbled one over the other line—from Dante’s phone.
I look down at the message before returning the device to my ear. “Change routes,” I tell Alonzo.
“Where to?” he shoots back, hands steady on the wheel.
“The Luciani Family Estate.”
“Constantin is there,” Dante says.
“I know,” I tell him. “I read the message.”
“That fucking snake is up to something,” Dante growls. “He’s been visiting the Don often lately. I wish Papá would just send him back to Italy, but I know he won’t.”
“Do you think he could be a mole?” I demand, considering his words. “He seemed surprised at the reception that I was not only married but that it wasn’t Isa.”
Dante is quiet for several long moments.
When he speaks, it’s with a deadly tone.
“If he’s after Daisy, I’ll find out,” he promises me.
“I’ll tag all of his technology—not that the old man has much—but whatever he’s got, even if I have to tear apart his place myself, I’ll find it, G. No one’s going to hurt her.”
“No.” My agreement is sharp and punctuated. “Daisy is mine.”
Even if I have to kill to keep her that way.