Chapter 6 Dominic
Chapter six
Dominic
I was twelve when I watched my father being assassinated. Eighteen years later, I found out the one who signed the order for my father’s assassination was my uncle—the one who took me in, the one who trained me. He was his right-hand man, and Father trusted him.
He trusted a lot of people, and that’s what sent him to an early grave. After finding out, I killed my uncle in the exact manner the assassin had killed my father—I slit his throat.
That night changed something in me and I grew into the monster Father had always wanted me to be. But it came at a cost: My heart, my soul…and my mother.
Guilt spreads in my chest at the thought of my mother but Matteo’s voice pulls me out of my head.
“Here’s the video, Capo.” He holds out a phone to me and I collect it, pressing play on the screen.
I watch as the frame slides into view. Mandy, the journalist, appears on screen and starts to eat up her words.
“I want to address the rumors and statements I made earlier regarding Moretti Shipping. After further investigation, I realize my claims were unfounded…”
My finger skims the rim of my glass, and I take a sip.
“…Moretti Shipping has, in fact, cooperated with regulators in the past, and I regret suggesting otherwise.”
“The videos have been circulating and some of our investors in the legal businesses are returning. Tutto sta tornando in forma (Everything is coming back into shape),” Matteo explains.
Good.
“The Russians,” he adds and I clench my fist, feeling the anger building in my sternum.
It’s been three days since my damn shipment was stolen. We still haven’t got a lead on who it was. Matteo has been watching the Russians and they haven’t veered off track.
As for our men, he checked all of their phones and then set up systems in place to watch them, especially those who were privy to the shipment’s information. Not one of them has made a single wrong move.
But someone must have shown whoever was behind the theft the schedule. The fucking rat must be laying low.
“We can’t find anything solid proving they’re behind the attack. But if you still want us to atta—”
“No.” I stand up from the chair and walk toward the window that overlooks the city. It’s the one thing I like about the construction company’s office. It shows me that the world is mine for the taking.
I clench my fist, my nails digging crescents into my palm. We can’t attack the Russians without solid evidence that they’re behind the stolen shipment. It’d make me seem unstable, especially if they had no hand in it. And instability would mean I’m losing control. I don’t play like that.
“Gli altri (The others)?” I say to Matteo without turning back.
“Red Hook, Red Herring, Blue Steel. We’ve had history with them, but none of them are foolish enough to dare us.” He shakes his head. “The Russians are still the on—”
I don’t allow him to finish. “I don’t want to hear another word about the Russians until you address the source of the problem.” I grind my teeth, the urge to smash my glass against the wall overwhelming me.
“You know how I play Matteo,” I growl, and his jaw tenses, “I do not lose control. Ever!”
“Sì, Boss.”
Understanding dawns across his eyes. I straighten my spine, taking deep breaths to calm my temper.
“There is a fucking mole in this empire. Find him. Ora (Now)!”
“Yes, Capo.” He bows.
There’s silence for a while until he speaks again, shuffling through his phone.
“Report from your wife’s outing yesterday.”
My brows perch at his words.
“She spent two hours at the library yesterday. Asked for a first edition, walked out with a paperback instead. Was friendly with the librarian like they’d known each other for years.”
I frown. “Gender?”
“Femmina (Female).”
I exhale in relief.
Fuck. What’s wrong with me?
“Later on, though, a man…tried to get her attention on the street,” he continues in an unsure voice. “Mid-thirties, dock hands, cheap cologne. He didn’t touch her or anything, just tried to make conversation with her, seemed to want her to notice him—”
“Name?” I demand, my fist clenching on the edge of the desk. I’m unable to hold it anymore. Heat spikes, hot and clean, through my veins, forcing me to stride quickly to Matteo.
“James Arturo. We tailed him, picked him up four blocks away from the library, before he realized he had a tail. He’s downstairs.”
Thankfully, Matteo knows his job well. “Bene (Good).”
“Do you want me to—”
“I’ll take it from here.” I’m already rolling the sleeves of my T-shirt. My fingers are shaking as I do so, eyes burning with a rage that surprises even me. But it’s not jealousy. That, I’m sure of.
It is nothing but operational control. Setting boundaries.
There’s a flicker of surprise in Matteo’s eyes before they go blank, and he walks out the door. Matteo was one of my father’s few loyalists and has been with me since he helped me take over the mafia. He should know I don’t like people touching—no, even eyeing—what’s mine.
The buzz from staff in the offices swallows me whole once I leave my office, passing through a lonely hallway before entering through a door that leads to the basement.
The stench of blood and rust hits my nostrils as I enter the space.
There are rusted old sinks with water that doesn’t run clear, blood-stained white tiles, and a small table with torturing equipment on top.
Two buff guards are on either side of the bastard who’s sitting in a chair, tied with ropes and bruised in ways I think is too little.
Probably just the struggle with the tailing.
When I get to him, I lean down, close to his face. His pupils are unequal, pointing to a concussion, but something even more interesting piques my attention. He doesn’t flinch when I raise my hands to his face.
He’s been in this situation before. I’m starting to doubt that he’s just a random person interested in Isabella.
“Per background check, what do we have on him?” I ask Matteo without taking my eyes off the man.
“He’s a gambler and works as a dockman. No relatives or history of anything worth mentioning.”
I try to search his face for more but he seems to be a mask of indifference. Not for long! Gripping the edge of the wooden chair, I growl, “What did you want with my wife?”
“N-nothing, I swear. She’s pretty and I just—”
My knuckles collide with his jaw. He groans loudly, his head whipping to the side on impact.
I fist his dirty collar, my voice coming out in pants, “She’s not yours to look at.”
His eyes widen at how my knuckles brush the side of his head.
“I swear man. I just wanted to talk to her…” he stutters, but I drown out his words. The vein on his temple is pounding under my fingers. He’s lying.
Anger gnaws at my chest, and I want nothing more than to snap his neck, but I need answers first. I straighten my spine and motion to one of the guards to bring the tray.
In a breath, the tray is passed, and I take a cigar and a lighter, putting it to my lips and lighting it. James watches me tensely as I take a drag, which barely unfurls the edge in my chest, and exhale.
I need a slow, burning torture for this bastard. I’ll show him what happens when he tries to mess with my wife. And I’ll show her…what happens if she ever does decide to foolishly give anyone else a piece of her.
“Record this.” My voice echoes deadly in the room. James’ eyes widen as I raise the lit end of the cigar to his skin. Then his words stop me.
“I-I was told to—” he blurts, fear clotting his eyes.
My lips curve in a frown. Someone did tell him then.
“Who?”
“I-I don’t know his name.” He eyes me, then the cigar again. “I met him by the fish market. H-he paid me a huge sum to—”
“What did he ask you to do?”
He swallows and releases a heavy breath. “P-please I can’t tell—”
Clenching my jaw, I find a half-healed wound on his arm and press the lit end of the cigar inside. He screams, the noise striking my ear with an intensity only a coward can pull.
Irritation pinches my skin. I hate noise. It muddies my questions. I continue the assault, switching the cigar with a small gun-shaped lighter that allows the fire to dart straight into his skin.
“Fuck! Fuck! Ahhh!” He writhes against the rope. The two guards on either side hold him still. My blood boils with each note he hits on the scream scale.
“He said, make the Don twitch! Fuck!” Tears are pouring from his eyes, his body still vibrating from the trauma.
I furrow my brows, pausing the assault on his skin. This is not Russian muscle. Someone else is profiling me. Testing if my leash tightens when she’s in view. Maybe searching for a weak spot.
Fuck!
“I’m sorry…please,” he whimpers, hunched as far as the ropes around his body allow.
“You went after my wife!” I spit, wheels turning in my head. The bastard behind this could be the same one behind the stolen shipment.
There’s only one way to find out.
I pause, take a breath, then scan for another vital sensitive area. The wounds and bruises aren’t cutting it anymore.
Then, I hold his gaze. His eyes!
Turning on the lighter again, I use two fingers to hold his right eye open. Down here, the walls are soundproof, so no one will hear him scream. Slowly, I inch the fire close to his eye and watch his iris melt before mine.
His screams erupt, loud and gut-wrenching, as he convulses before me. I watch with a glimmer of satisfaction as blood and goo drip down his face, his breath growing faint like he’ll pass out any moment.