39. Saverio
39
SAVERIO
I t’s past 3:00 am, and the others are getting restless.
“I thought you said he’d be home by now,” Luciano glares, his eyes narrowing with impatience and a hint of suspicion.
Dante kicks the coffee table in the living room, his movements highlighted by the moonlight peeking through the window. The loud thud echoes in the silent house, making everyone flinch. “We should have just jumped him outside the bar,” he growls. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, barely containing his restless energy.
“Nah. I don’t go to Aggieville anymore,” Luciano adds as he rubs his chest, a haunted look crossing his face. “Bad memories.” His fingers absentmindedly trace the scars beneath his shirt.
Knowing that the Lucatellos branded him like a piece of cattle after jumping him in an alley in Aggieville, I get it. “Shut up. All of you,” I hiss, my patience wearing thin. My temples are beginning to throb, and a dull ache is building behind my eyes. “He’ll be home soon,” I add, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
As if on cue, the sound of keys jangling in the front door tells us that Kristopher has finally arrived. The metallic scraping sends a jolt through the room. Everyone sinks back into the shadowy corners of the living room, disguising themselves in the darkness.
The door creaks open, and Kristopher stumbles inside, half-drunk and reeking of whiskey and cigarette smoke. He spent the evening drinking with his regulars, and it shows.
He shuts the front door but forgets to lock it. As he tosses his keys on the side table next to the door, they slide off and scatter against the floor. Kristopher groans before flipping on the living room light to grab them. He’s halfway to bending over when his eyes land on us—me, Dante, Luciano, Salvatore, and Niccolo—perched around his living room like a death squad waiting to pass judgment. Kristopher’s face pales instantly, panic flooding his features as he freezes in place. His eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist.
“What the hell is this?” Kristopher asks, his voice shaky despite the desperate attempt to gather his courage.
I step out of the corner, cracking my knuckles. “You tell me, Kristopher,” I reply, my voice calm and measured. I don’t need to yell at him; the message is clear. “I told you I’d get to the bottom of this.”
His breathing quickens as he straightens his spine, and then he stumbles back, his hand reaching for the doorknob like he thinks he can run from judgment day. Dante crosses the room and places a hand above Kristopher’s head, holding the door in its frame. “You’re not going anywhere until we get what we came for.”
Panic sets in fast. Kristopher’s eyes widen to saucers, darting frantically from Dante to me and then to each of the other men in the room as if searching for an ally or an escape route. I can almost hear the gears grinding in his mind as he desperately tries to find something— anything —that will save his skin. Sweat beads on his forehead and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.
Then, like a cornered animal mustering its last defense, his eyes narrow to slits. A cunning gleam replaces the fear, and I can see him steeling himself, preparing to turn the tables on us with whatever desperate ploy he’s concocted.
“You’re Lucia’s brothers, aren’t you,” Kristopher’s jaw tightens. “I recognize you,” he says as he juts his chin toward Dante. “I’ve seen you in my bar before. You , too.” This time, he looks at Salvatore. “But I don’t know why you’re here with this guy after what he did to your sister.” Kristopher points at me accusatorily.
Luciano looks me up and down, his eyes narrowing. “What did he do to my sister?”
“Nothing,” I scoff. “I didn’t do anything to Lucia.”
“Nothing is what he calls getting her fucked up in my bar and then taking her home,” Kristopher taunts. “She was teetering all over Tate’s on their way out a couple of weeks ago. He had to hold her by the waist to keep her from falling over.”
A wry smile creeps onto my face, unbidden. I have to hand it to Kristopher—even half-drunk, he’s a formidable opponent. The man knows how to stir up trouble with surgical precision.
“Did you take advantage of my sister?” Luciano demands, taking a step in my direction. His face flushes a deep cherry red, the color spreading down his neck. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles whitening, and I can practically see the steam rising from his ears. He’s a powder keg, primed and ready to explode, and I’m standing in the blast zone.
A sick grin curls around Kristopher’s lips; he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You guys don’t know, huh?” He continues. “Saverio and Lucia are keeping secrets from you. The two of them have been carrying on for years now.”
That’s almost as good as an admission of guilt. How would he know what Lucia and I were up to if he wasn’t actively following us around? The pieces click into place and a bitter amusement wells up inside me. “You motherfucker,” I laugh, the sound harsh and mirthless. My eyes narrow as I study Kristopher’s smug face, realizing just how deep his obsession runs. He’s been stalking us, lurking in the shadows, piecing together fragments of our lives like some deranged puzzle master. The thought makes my skin crawl.
But it’s too late. Luciano lunges and grabs me by the collar. He yanks me toward him, fury blazing in his eyes as he shoves his face in mine. “What’s going on between you and my sister? What’s he talking about?”
I shove him back, hard, my patience wearing thin. “Back the fuck off, Terlizzi. What happens between Lucia and me has nothing to do with you.” My voice is a low growl laced with frustration and barely contained anger.
“The hell it doesn’t.” Luciano looks like a bull ready to charge into a China shop.
“Lucia’s arranged to marry me. What happens between us stays between us. If you’re so upset about it, you can lodge a complaint with Dante. It’s his fault your precious baby sister is tied to me for the rest of her life.”
Dante’s face contorts with rage, his eyes flashing dangerously as he clenches his jaw. He knows I’m right, and he can’t bring himself to argue. Instead, he whirls around, turning his attention to Kristopher with a predatory focus. “You had your fun, kid,” he snarls. “Now we want answers. And you’re gonna give’em to us.”
Without warning, Dante’s fist shoots out. It collides with Kristopher’s jaw with a sickening crack that echoes through the room. The impact snaps Kristopher’s head to the side, and I can already see the bruise forming on his pale skin.
Kristopher slams into the front door from the force of the blow, blood welling up in his mouth. He spits on the floor, sprinkling the beige carpet with red. “Fuck you.”
Undeterred, Dante kicks Kristopher in the stomach. My brother doubles over with a guttural moan, clutching his abdomen as he curls inward, his face twisted in pain.
“You think this is gonna make me talk?” He laughs between gritted teeth. “You think I can’t handle a couple of punches?”
He was in the Destroyers motorcycle gang for months. If there’s anyone who won’t cower from a little pain, it’s him.
I step closer to the scene, reaching behind me to grab the small crowbar tucked into the waistband of my jeans. It clicks as I tap it against my palm, reverberating through the tense room. “Can you handle this?”
Kristopher’s eyes widen a fraction, a flicker of apprehension crossing his face before narrowing again, anger taking over the momentary fear. He shifts slightly, muscles tensing as he braces himself without breaking eye contact. “You always were a piece of shit, weren’t you? Guess some things never change.”
I’m surprised to hear that from him, considering the act he’s put on for the last two years. “I’ve heard worse.” With a swift motion, I swing the crowbar at Kristopher’s knee. The sickening crunch of metal crushing bone is followed by a howl of pain as blood sprays across the room.
“You fucking bastard!” Kristopher screams, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and agony as he clutches at his shattered knee—blood seeps between his fingers, staining his clothes and pooling on the floor beneath him.
Dante steps back, watching the scene unfold with a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes glint with a cold pleasure at Kristopher’s suffering. I keep my gaze locked on our victim, my expression unwavering and emotionless. “Still think you can handle it, tough guy?”
Kristopher’s face contorts in pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggles to maintain his defiant facade. “You think this changes anything?” He growls between heaving breaths. His words come out in short, pained bursts. “You’re still not getting shit from me, asshole. I’ve dealt with worse than you two pricks.”
I scoff, raising the crowbar again. “We’ll see about that.”
Kristopher’s eyes flicker with a mix of defiance and desperation. Blood drips steadily from his kneecap, pooling beneath him on the carpet—the room reeks of sweat and tension.
I bring the crowbar down hard on his shoulder with a sickening crunch, eliciting a raw and broken scream from Kristopher’s mouth.
“This might be the only thing I like about you,” Dante says dryly, his lips curling into a cold smirk. “Your penchant for brutality is legendary. It’s almost artistic, in a twisted way.”
“You’re both insane,” Kristopher gasps between ragged breaths, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, fear, and pain etched deeply into every line of his face. “You’ll pay for this,” he manages to choke out, but the threat sounds hollow to everyone who hears it.
I toss the crowbar on the floor and crouch down to get on his level. I’m close enough to smell the coppery tang of his blood mixing with his aftershave. “Feel like talking now?”
Kristopher’s gaze wavers for just a moment before hardening again. “Fuck you,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Remember those words.” I jam my finger into his chest. “I hope they comfort you when you’re eating from a straw.”
I didn’t want to get my hands dirty tonight, but I guess I’ll have to. The familiar weight of violence settles over me like an old, welcome friend. I take aim at Kristopher’s nose, my fist clenched tight, knuckles white. There’s a sickening crunch as I connect, and blood splatters everywhere when I break it with a single blow to the face. Kristopher’s head snaps back, his eyes watering from the pain, and a strangled cry escapes his lips.
Instinct kicks in, and I deliver a swift kick to my brother’s ribs. He crumples onto his side, his body curling inward like a withering leaf. His grunts of displeasure are the only sound escaping his lips, each ragged breath punctuated by a pained wheeze. The sight of him writhing on the ground sends a conflicting mix of satisfaction and guilt coursing through me, but I push those feelings aside, focusing on the task at hand.
“Get up,” I hiss at him, anger radiating from every pore.
Kristopher manages to drag himself halfway upright; his face contorted with a mixture of pain and determination. If it weren’t for his busted knee, his lunge would be more stable and threatening. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any foresight. He attempts to leap at me, swinging his fists wildly as he grabs me around the waist, his fingers digging into my flesh.
My head connects with the sharp edge of the coffee table as we go down, sending sparks of blinding pain through my skull. The world spins for a moment, and I taste copper in my mouth. Kristopher gets off one good hit, his knuckles cracking against my jaw with a sickening thud before Dante intervenes. With a speed I didn’t know he possessed, Dante grabs Kristopher by the back of his shirt, his muscles straining as he flings my brother to the couch. Kristopher lands with a muffled thump, the cushions barely softening his impact as he curls into a tangle of limbs and curses.
“Is that all you got?” I taunt, ignoring the ringing in my head.
Dante yawns, looking bored. “Kid, if you want me to let Castiglione kill you, I can. But that’s patricide, right?”
“Fratricide,” Salvatore corrects.
“Right, that one.” Dante stands between Kristopher and me, an imposing figure barely holding it together. I can tell that he wants to be the one kicking Kristopher’s ass. “Anyway, I’ll let him kill you. It’s his blood and yours on the crime scene, not mine. The police aren’t going to show up at my door asking who killed some pissant local bartender. But you know what will bother me?”
Kristopher’s breaths come out in puffs of anger as he adjusts himself on the couch. Blood smears the fabric; there’s no cleaning it now. “What?” He asks, responding to Dante’s rhetorical question.
Lucia’s oldest brother leans down and puts his face in Kristopher’s. “Never knowing why you stalked my sister. Because you did, didn’t you?” He tilts his head. “You terrorized her for months.”
I slowly get to my feet, the room vibrating as I try to focus my gaze on my brother. “Take your pick, Kristopher. Dante or me.”
He looks back and forth between the two of us, his eyes growing wild with uncertainty. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice trembling slightly.
“Me? Well, like Terlizzi said, I’ll kill you. And I’ll make it hurt. One time, I ripped a man’s intestines out and force-fed them to him. It was a brutal, horrible way to die if you ask me. The coroner said he died of asphyxiation. I shoved his insides so far down his throat that they got stuck in his lungs. A real shame, but it took less than an hour. It’s not the quickest way to go, but faster than what Dante will do to you. Dante, well, he’s got a real talent for prolonging agony.”
Dante nods his head in agreement. “He’s right. If you want to live, I’ve got you covered. You can spend the next few years languishing in the dungeon beneath the Terlizzi mansion. It comes with a bed, a bathroom, and three squares a day.”
“And torture,” I add for Dante. “He doesn’t say it outright, but he’ll rip your nails off one by one and then pour salt on the wounds. Maybe he’ll even get creative with a blowtorch. He’s a fucked up dude, our Dante. A real artist when it comes to pain.”
“You force-fed a guy his own guts,” Dante scoffs, rolling his eyes. “And I’m the one that’s fucked up?”
“At least his suffering was over quickly,” I retort, shrugging nonchalantly. “An hour of agony and then lights out. You aren’t letting this fucker off that easily. No, you’ll drag it out for days, weeks even. Make him beg for death long before you grant it.”
Dante looks back at Kristopher, and a smile appears on his lips. “Yeah, that’s true. I figure if you can terrorize Lucia for a few months, you won’t mind if I terrorize you for a few months.”
“I’ll talk,” Kristopher spits out a moment later. “I’ll tell you everything.” His breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts.
“Thank God.” Dante stands up straight, stretching momentarily before yawning again. “It’s already pretty late, and my wife won’t be happy if I show up with another little plaything. She’s tired of cleaning blood out of my shirts.”
Salvatore frowns. “You make Ada clean your shirts?”
“She’s actually really good at getting blood out of fabric. Honestly, you should hire her for this place,” Dante clucks his tongue as he looks around Kristopher’s living room, his eyes scanning the carnage with a mix of amusement and professional assessment. “You’re going to need to replace the carpet and the couch, and probably throw out those clothes. Hell, you might as well redecorate entirely. Adalina’s a miracle worker when it comes to laundry, but even she’d be hard-pressed to salvage this mess. You’re going to need more than a miracle to clean this place up. Maybe a hazmat team and an interior designer. If you live that long.”