Chapter 13
13
M assimo
I walk along the pebbled path to the front of the Montefiore mansion. Going through gate security was a breeze—they know we’re married and that I'm supposed to be more hands-on, coming over more often unannounced due to our alliance, so I'm all cleared.
My driver, Tom, parked the car and will be outside waiting. He's skilled with his hands, but this time, I want to do the job alone.
The housekeeper opens the door. "Good morning. Can I help you, Mr. Gallo?" she asks with a smile.
"I need to talk to Ugo," I say, walking past her without fanfare.
"Oh, of course. He's in the kitchen. I'll call him," she says behind me, following me as I march through the front hall.
"No need." I wave her off. "I'll find him."
I hear a confused “okay” behind me. I'm sure she's seen worse things than a new family member barging in and rushing through the foyer in the morning. But I have the element of surprise on my side. Not that I need it.
Cold anger surges through me like a wave, the current growing stronger with each step I take. It's not the hot type of anger where I'll shoot him and leave. This bastard broke her ribs. I want to make him suffer.
"Massimo! You're here," her mom says, a nervous look on her face. "I didn't expect you. Is everything okay? Is Amara with you?"
"No, I'm handling some business. Anywhere in the house I can talk privately to your head of security?"
"Oh, sure," she says, fumbling about. "The second door to your left. I mean, the third," she corrects, following me. "The third!"
"Sure."
I pass by the kitchen and nod at Ugo, the motherfucker, who's talking closely to another security person. "Ugo, come with me."
"Yes, sir," he says, following me into the room and closing the door behind us.
I'm sure he assumes I'm here to brief him or talk to him about a job I want done. Amara’s mom told me that Ugo would help me with whatever I needed once we started working together.
I scan the guest room decorated in impersonal pastel colors, a bed at the end, and a few pieces of furniture. A family picture with a much younger Amara hangs on one wall. I move closer. I can tell someone told her to smile, but deep down, she was unhappy.
Seeing her only stokes the fire brewing inside me.
"How can I help, sir?" Ugo asks. "I thought it'd be a couple of weeks until you took over. But I'm here to help."
"Good. I'm here," I start, removing the knife from my pocket, "to talk about how you beat up my wife." I've only used this handmade steel beauty a couple of times since I bought it six months ago. Using an exceptional blade on this scum of the earth feels like a sacrilege. Then I remember how sharp it is and how much pain it'll inflict on him.
The color drains from his face, and he eyes the closed door. "Excuse me, sir?"
I lift my chin. "Don't play dumb, asshole."
"I apologize, sir. That was so long ago… I'll talk to her."
I’ll talk to her. Is that the best he can do? I pace in a small circle, my eyes never leaving his. "No, I don't think you will. I don't think you'll talk to anyone anymore," I say, determination in every syllable, my voice calm and controlled.
Ugo moves to the closed door, but I'm faster and launch toward him, dropping him to the floor. He tries to remove the knife and neutralize me. He reaches for my arm, but I'm faster and swipe the side of his stomach.
Ugo groans and punches me in the gut. Shit. Gotta give it to him, it was a good one, a snappy twinge of pain spreading through me. But I'm stronger. And bigger.
I clock him in his face once, enjoying the sound of my fist on his cheek. I attempt to do it again, but this time, he blocks me, and we fight for dominance, rolling on the floor as I still hold the knife in my right hand. Adrenaline throbs in my veins. My heart pounds in my chest.
He kicks me in the groin, and the pain increases tenfold. I strike back, and this time, I insert the knife well into his stomach and twist it.
I'm on top of him, watching redness take over his face, sweat covering his skin. Blood seeps through his shirt. He’s disoriented and pissed.
"What the fuck? I- I was just doing my job," he says.
I rear back, catching my breath. "You broke her ribs, motherfucker."
"She wouldn't stop fighting," he says, panting.
Neither will I. I grasp the knife. He tries to punch me, but he’s lost too much blood and isn’t strong enough. Pretty soon, he'll be defenseless. Good.
Ugo lets out a guttural sound of pain that reverberates through the room. He tries to stand, his face twisting in agony.
I push him to the dresser before he can get fully upright and bend him over, stretching his hand out on the surface. He screams as I cut off his thumb, more blood gushing as the small appendage falls on the carpet.
"Son of a bitch," he mutters.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. He frowns, his face contorted in a bunch of lines, none of them happy. He knows this is it. He has to.
As if trying to protect his reputation, he charges into me one last time, probably hoping I'll lose balance and he can take me to the floor. I pull the gun from my ankle holster and shoot him between his eyes.
He falls like dead weight, a pool of blood around him.
I grab a handkerchief from my pocket, walk over to where his thumb fell, wrap it, and bring it with me. I give him one last look to ensure he's gone. Picking up my knife and gun, I place them in the inside pockets of my jacket. I smooth my suit and close the door.
As I make my way back, Vittoria comes up to me.
"Is everything okay?" she asks, touching her chest. "I've heard some noise, and?—"
"Everything is good now," I tell her before I walk out. "Send some people to clean your guest room. Trash needs to be taken out."