13. ANTONIO
The next morning…
I'm still carrying a hardon. Damn, seeing that woman hold a gun last night did things to me I can't explain.
Whenever I watch a movie with a chick handling a gun, I laugh, even if they are sexy as hell.
Not with Scarlet, though. That had been anything but laughable.
That was one unexpected turn on, one I'm still not over.
When I decided to take her to the shooting range, it had only been to make her feel better, to give her back some of the control she lost. I know a thing or two about that.
But fuck.
Not only was she a fucking natural, but the way she handled it… my already stiff dick demanded more of my blood, making thinking harder.
When I put Scarlet on my bed last night, it took every ounce of my willpower not to pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless—and that is a complication I don’t need. Not right now. Or ever.
Instead, I went into the bathroom and took care of my cock in a long shower, but when I came back into the bedroom and Scarlet was already asleep, curled up on top of the comforter, my dick turned rock hard again.
I might have tucked her in a little bit rougher than I needed to, but fuck, she was getting to me, and I hated that.
If I’d had any sense at all, I would have kept my distance from her after that.
But for my senses to work, they needed blood flowing through my body, and right then most of it was pandering to my ever-demanding dick.
Even now, as I enter the warehouse, Scarlet is on my mind. Despite her obvious willingness to exact vengeance on the men who hurt her, I don't think she's ready for that kind of brutality. Or ever will be, no matter what she might think.
I ordered Igio and Umberto—two of my soldiers—to string Hank and Marco up the same way they had done to Scarlet.
"Nice touch." I nod approvingly at Igio and Berto when I enter to find Hank and Marco soaked from head to toe.
"Couldn't take the stink much longer, boss," Igio replies.
Another wave of anger flares up from deep inside my gut—this part I hadn't considered.
Of course Scarlet would have been forced to relieve herself while hanging from the ceiling.
Hank is closer to me, so I lift my foot and kick him hard in his side.
He cries out and swings back and forth, bumping into Marco, who grunts.
"You two are pathetic," I tell them, shaking my head. Scarlet had more life in her the night I rescued her than these two cowards. Marco looks up with something akin to fire in his eyes, so he's still there. Good, I hope to break him.
My fists clench and unclench with the need to hurt these men for what they did to Scarlet.
I'm not sure where this anger is coming from.
I barely know her. And yet, there is a magnetism between us that I can't deny.
She's drawing me in like no other woman ever has.
Many have tried very hard, but none succeeded.
I thought my heart was dead for years, and nobody is more surprised than I am to discover that there is still some life left in it.
I force my mind away from Scarlet. I need other things from these men besides payback for what they did to her. I take a moment and inhale a deep breath to collect myself. When I'm sure the little siren is out of my head, I demand, "What other plans does Carlos have to stay out of jail?"
"Fuck you," Hank replies, spitting at my feet, hitting my shoe. Looks like someone got a little adrenaline rush. Good. I hate beating semi-conscious men.
"Stronzo," I curse before my fist slams into his stomach. I had these shoes imported from Italy. This is the first time I’ve worn them.
The power of my hit would normally have Hank doubled over, but his arms up in the air prevent him from doing that. As it is, he coughs and spurts and vomits. I make sure to stay out of the spray.
"What about you?" I ask Marco, giving Hank a moment to recover before I continue with him.
"Fuck you," Marco replies, not very originally, copying his partner. His stomach muscles tighten in anticipation of a blow, so I go for his right kidney instead. The fucker is gonna piss blood for the last few hours of his life.
"Tough guys, eh?" I mock as both swing on their ropes, coughing and contorting.
"Why don't you make this easier on yourself and me?
You guys know everybody breaks. It's only a matter of time, and I…
" I sigh dramatically, splaying my hands out in front of their faces. "Have all the time in the world."
"No, you don't…" Hank chokes out with snot running down his face. "You need the information now before the trial progresses further."
He's right. I cock my head and pull out a knife.
Its blade is long and sharp. I move into his space until we're nearly nose to nose.
I peel off the remains of a bandage. I tore the one guy's cheek open. With my shoe . Unbidden, Scarlet pops up in my head again. A long, slowly healing gash moves down his cheek. I draw the blade down it, reopening it while keeping eye contact with him. The fucker is stubborn, I’ll give him that. He doesn't blink.
"So what are you suggesting?" I ask while still working on him with the blade.
Sweat dribbles down his forehead. He blinks a few times, and the pain reflects in his eyes, but he holds steady.
"Let me go, and I'll tell you what you want to know," Marco yells, dangling from a hook next to Hank.
I throw my head back and laugh straight in his face. "Do you really think you'll get out of here alive?" I turn to Igio and Berto, "This fucker is funny, eh?"
Both of their expressions remain focused and cold.
They are two of my best-trained men. If I thought for one second Marco had anything important to say, I would have taken him up on his offer, well, except for letting him go, of course, but my money is on Hank knowing more about Carlos's plans than Marco.
My laughter stops dead in the middle as I face Hank again, "Neither one of you is coming out of this alive. The question is: how many parts do I have to cut off, and how many times do I have to carve you before I let you die?"
Hank's olive-toned skin turns gray.
I turn to Marco to repeat the process. He squirms and cries even more than Hank.
"Alright, who's gonna break first?" I ask Igio and Berto, holding out two one-hundred-dollar bills.
"That one." Igio nods at Hank, putting a hundred on a nearby table.
"Nah, no way. That motherfucker is tough. My money's on that asshole." Berto puts his money up, and I add mine.
"I think that one pissed himself again." Berto points at Marco.
"Hose them both down and make sure to clean their wounds; it'll be a pity if they get infected," I order and lean against the wall while I watch Berto and Igio follow through.
Normally, I would let Igio and Berto do the dirty work, but these stronzos have laid their hands on Scarlet, watched her get hurt, and worse, hurt her themselves.
A deep, primitive part of me won't allow anybody else to mete out their just punishment.
I want to see them bleed. I want to see them beg and cry.
It's a pity I won't be able to do this to Carlos myself.
These two will have to work as his proxy.
It takes three fucking hours for Hank to finally spills the beans, surprising me both with his intel and how long he held out before offering it up.
"Carlos has four of the jurors in his pocket," Hank yells when I deepen a carving I already did on his back.
"Names?" I move back as Hank throws up once again.
"I don’t know, man, I don't know," he wails. "Please stop. Please. I swear I don't know their names."
I step in front of him, grabbing the back of his head as if we're old buddies. "You know what? I think I believe you. But I also believe you have something else to tell me."
He nods eagerly. "I do. I do. He and Nestor are working on Kevin Jaspar."
I whistle slightly through my teeth. Now that is good information. Kevin Jaspar is the state attorney; he also happens to be in my pocket. That he hasn't contacted me about Carlos and Nestor speaks for itself.
"Good man." I pat Hank a few times on the top of his head. "That wasn't too hard now, was it?"
Tears well in his eyes, disgusting me more. What a pathetic prick. Careful not to get more blood on me, I ram the knife down his ribcage and straight into his heart.
"Your turn." I stare coldly at Marco, who begins to spin all on his own in an attempt to get away from me.
It takes a couple of hours before I'm satisfied that Marco doesn't know shit, then I end him like I did Hank.
"Clean that up," I order Igio and Umberto on my way out.
On my way home, I call Grigori from a burner phone. He answers on the second ring, "Toni, you got a target for me yet?"
"I wish, Grigori," I sigh. "The trial is still ongoing, but I have it on good authority that the target will be moved to a place of your choosing."
"Excellent." I can hear the Russian psychopath rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the hit I arranged on Carlos.
I'm walking a fine line with the Peckham of the Russian mafia, but there aren't many other powerful men in this world who want Carlos dead as much as he and I do.
A few years ago, I did a favor for Grigori Arsenyev, also known as bezumnyy volk —the mad wolf—a title he's rather proud of.
A favor that could find me in a shallow grave if my fellow capos ever find out.
Our friendship —I'm hesitant to use that word, because Grigori doesn't cultivate friends —began by doing business together. I produce highly luxurious helicopters, which the Russians seem to love, judging by the number of choppers they buy from me. Or that’s what the IRS records say.
In reality, they only receive a handful.
The helicopters are just a front for our illicit business transactions, drugs, and arms. The end result? Clean money.