36. Dominic
36
DOMINIC
I prefer to do shit like this on an empty stomach, but it is what it is. We’re filing out of Matteo’s office and heading to the adjacent secret room where Vincenzo and the rest of Franco’s team of hired Ukrainian hands have been kept going. Matteo opens the door with his thumbprint, and once we go through more security checks, we reach the guard who is watching the men on TV monitors.
Yep, all my work and basically an impenetrable prison. There’s only one way you get out of here—in a body bag directly to the promession site in the building’s basement with Matteo’s private elevator.
The men listened to our arrival, and already they’re alert, whatever that means. I’m not a fan of this type of situation. I’ve seen enough of this shit to prefer it to be quick and done with, but they’ve been slow to talk.
Vincenzo blinks at us through his swollen eyes, and just seeing his face makes me want to choke him to death. He allowed Franco to get to Gigi. He saw what that maniac did to Ariana. Most probably helped?—
“Fuck,” I growl, but Matteo’s grip on my arm holds me back.
“I get it, Nicky, but first, the information.”
I purse my lips, clenching my teeth, my nostrils flaring with the need to control my anger. It’s weird—it’s a type of anger I’ve never felt before. Somehow, it cuts deeper, but maybe it’s because someone else cut into me first. Ariana .
Suddenly, I’m getting where Matteo and Stephano come from with their women. Not that I’m so dumb to fall for one, but the need to avenge what Ariana has gone through is real. Franco might be dead, but I’m here to avenge her with whoever else participated in her hurt, in whichever way. Vincenzo is going to be that man. For starters.
Matteo printed out the images we have of Boris and Boryslav, and now he’s holding them out to me. “Make them talk.”
His tone says everything. I’m never getting out of my role here. As we walked over, I’ve reconsidered our position. Maybe all of this isn’t an attack, but a test of our strength as Il Consiglio. I can’t afford to be the weakest link here. I’ll do what I must do for as long as it takes. I have time to figure out how to protect Ariana. For now, my focus needs to be here.
With the photos in hand, I approach the closest Ukrainian. He drops his head back to meet my gaze. Yup, this guy already wishes it’s over.
“Tell us who this is?” I say, starting nice. No need to go anywhere with this if it isn’t necessary. The before and after shots will probably be enough to make these men talk.
The guy focuses on the photos, his gaze slow to jostle between the images. “Boris Kovalenko,” he grinds out.
“And the other guy?” I push the paper close to his face.
“Boryslav Petrenko.” Blood starts to seep from the guy’s mouth, and he coughs. Probably from a lost tooth or five.
“And? What makes these boys significant?” Next to me, Matteo, Luca, and Benedict are rolling on their heels, and the guy’s gaze jumps to them, then back to mine.
“Petrenko is Igor Petrov’s nephew. He got him out of Ukraine. I hope you didn’t kill the poor fucker. He doesn’t look very alive on that second picture.”
I sag in my soul but keep my posture upright. Nothing in my body language can give away what I feel. To make sure nobody is fucking with us, I ask the same questions to the rest of our prisoners, and when each of them agrees on the names, even though I’m holding the images up in random order, we need to take it as the truth.
“Why was Petrov’s cousin, fucking nephew, whatever, coming over to our side to fuck around in our territory?” Matteo asks in general.
“It was just a job,” one man groans.
“Which you fucked up,” Luca chimes in.
We share looks amongst ourselves. If Franco were just a job, and these men were acting on their own without Igor or Ivan Petrov’s approval, they might have stirred up shit unintentionally. There’s no way of knowing, not until this whole situation comes to a head.
“Can we get rid of them already?” Benedict says. “It isn’t as if they’re going back to where they came from.”
“Hmm,” Matteo hums, hands in his pants pockets, looking over the scene. “We keep this contained for as long as we can. For now, nobody else is breathing down our necks to find these fuckers, and we need to sort this situation with Ariana out first.” He glances at me. “I suspect when the time comes, Petrov is going to require our full attention.”
“We’re done here, then?” I ask. “Six of them if Petrov is going to keep count?”
My throat constricts, and I have a hard time swallowing. Six men might be overlooked in the bigger scheme of things, depending on their worth in Petrov’s Bratva, but a cousin…a nephew? Fuck .
Bottom line, this is a family fuckup. It started with the Don and dominoed to this. Matteo and Steph both have a hand in it, and let’s remind ourselves: teamwork makes the fucking dream work.
“There’s no going back now,” Matteo says as he pulls his gun from his shoulder holster. “Four of us, four of them. We’re done here. Party’s over.”
Fuck. In my head, it’s only started. We’re all pulling out our guns and pick a Ukrainian at random. The men are whimpering now, begging in whatever language, but I block out the sounds.
Vincenzo hasn’t peeped a word during this entire interrogation, but I watch the fuckwit. He is literally pissing in his seat, the liquid spraying into the bucket from his little wilted dick. His time will come. In the interim, let him shit himself.
On Matteo’s cue, we raise our guns, and in unison, finish the four Ukrainians in one go. Their bodies slump as blood starts to seep from the holes in their foreheads. Just a dribble. It’s the back of the head where the party’s at with brains and bits of skull bursting out and splattering onto the floor. It’s nothing in comparison to what this room can take, what with the drain hole in the middle and the neat hosing-down options we have in place.
Quiet descends once again, and we all home in on Vincenzo. He’s rattling his chains where he’s fastened to his metal chair. Boy, oh boy. It’s all fun and games, until it isn’t.
I go stand in front of him and take in the goosebumps spreading on his marbled skin. He seems to be almost blue with cold, but it’s only fear. “Vincenzo Trapani, it would seem Franco Fiore’s plans didn’t work out, and you’re pretty fucked.”
He shudders, and I shoot a glance to Matteo where he’s standing to the side with Luca and Benedict in tow.
“Tell me what you know about Ariana Morelli,” I ask, stepping up to him and putting my foot down on his bare toes. No pressure, but the hint is there. At least he pissed himself already—there’s no chance he’ll do so now and splatter some on my legs.
“I don’t know, man. Franco didn’t let me in on all his business dealings.”
I put some weight on his foot, and he groans. I’m a big man. I can break the bones in his feet if I want to. “So what did he tell you?”
“She’s some mafioso’s daughter, but he never told me who. Some big shot.”
“Any names you care to share?”
“Fuck man, I dunno? It’s the fucking Mafia. In Italy. Every area has its capos; there are many big shots. Being Don Trapani’s son, I was above the fucking fray.”
I glance at Matteo, and he gives me a cocked brow. This guy is a fucking arrogant idiot, going around the world as if he’s royalty.
“There’re capos aplenty, but was this guy a Don?” Matteo asks. “From Italy?”
Vincenzo grunts as I put more pressure on his foot.
“I dunno. Franco planned to marry her at some point, when they were much younger.”
This makes me reel back on the pressure a bit. Imagine the life Ariana would have led as that maniac’s wife. “What happened?”
“She ran away.” Vincenzo breaks out into a grim chuckling fit, one that shoots the hairs on my arms up in chills. “But he found her.” Now he laughs out right. “Funny thing, he said he always knew exactly where she was, but he waited for the right moment to strike. Like a snake.”
He looks up at me, and the admiration in his eyes for Franco Fiore is too much. How could this man be Gigi and Carla’s brother? Just imagine if Franco got what he wanted. And he so almost had.
I can see it now, how Franco was literally living in an underworld until his time had come. And then he messed with the wrong people. I reach for Vincenzo’s throat and circle my hand around it. With a little squeeze, I choke the laughter right out of him, and he starts to wheeze in desperate breaths.
“And when was this?” I ask, letting go just enough for him to answer my question.
“Fuck, man. Weeks ago,” Vincenzo croaks. With a shrug, he drops his head back, preparing to spit on me, but I close his throat again, and it’s a battle for air. Human nature dictates you’ll always breathe first.
“And then?” I ask, less kind in my prompting now as I step with both feet on his, not sparing him any of my weight.
“We made the deal that made Ariana Morelli obsolete,” he croaks. “Gigi.” He laughs again, sinister and cruel. “Franco brought me to see her, to offer her to me…but he was just fucking with her. She was his prize. He was going to kill her as soon as his ring was on Gigi’s finger.”
His prize…
“Good thing that never happened,” I hiss. “Tell me, you piece of shit, now that Franco is dead—” I break off, because this would be news to him. Vincenzo has been locked up for some time in here. I feel the change in his pulse where my thumb is pressing against it, speeding up. “Yes, you fucking prick, Franco is dead by our hand. What are the consequences for Ariana Morelli?”
He stares at me, the life seeming to drain out of him. “Franco? Dead?”
I don’t bother to answer, just firming my hold. “Answer the fucking question. What hold does he have on her? What would happen on that side when he dies?”
Vincenzo closes his eyes, and I know this move. Resignation. Nobody is coming for you. This is really the end.
“I don’t know.”
Which is the standard answer when you’re dumb enough to be above the fucking fray in this world we rule.
“In my opinion, we’re done here,” I say as I look toward Matteo for authorization to end Vincenzo once and for all.
“What about a Gabriella Scalera?” Matteo asks now as he steps up.
It takes a full minute for Vincenzo to come back to life. He takes in Matteo and then shakes his head. “Never heard of her before.”
“We’ll let you think about it for a day or two,” I say, letting go of his throat where days of beard must be itching like a motherfucker. My finger’s imprints have discolored the skin already. He will die with those bruises. All I want is to wash his filth off my hands now. “Do yourself a favor and think over those two last questions carefully.”