Brutal Revenge (Caruso Cosa Nostra #3)

1. Matteo

Matteo

The Adami estate is too pristine to profit from the filth I’m here to confront.

Marble floors that have never encountered dirt, and air that carries a faint aroma of expensive cigars, greet us as we are shown through the regal grounds.

Every man we pass smirks with the confidence of someone who believes a noble bloodline justifies everything.

I’m here to teach them otherwise.

My younger brothers, Nico and Elio, walk beside me with the same stiff posture keeping my spine rigid. It’s the stance of a man trying real fucking hard not to break something.

Don Adami greets us with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, his arms spread wide as if he’s welcoming honored guests instead of the family whose soon-to-be sister-in-law was nearly gang-raped at an event this chapter of the Cosa Nostra hosted.

I’ve seen a lot of bad shit in my thirty-three years, but nothing compared to the terror on Dante’s face when he walked into a room to find Lucia held down by ten thugs. Her barely there bra and panties clung to her battered body by a thread, and blood trickled from her nose.

Giovanni, the don of our chapter and the eldest of the five Caruso brothers, took out the main culprit with a direct headshot.

She was lucky. Death by a bullet wasn’t a sufferable enough punishment for Dante.

He wanted the men holding his woman to the ground to feel the pain he felt when her screams for them to stop ripped through his ears.

A blade from one ear to the other barely scratched the surface of the adrenaline surging through his veins, but the men shackling Lucia’s ankles and wrists to the seedy, pre-cum-stained floor gurgled on their last breaths for at least a minute.

Then every male member of their families endured the remainder of the brunt only hours later.

Now we’re about to take out the rest of the trash.

“Matteo, Nico, Elio.” Don Adami’s lungs saw in and out as he names us in order of our place in the family.

If Giovanni and Dante were here, he would have greeted them first. It’s meant to be a sign of respect, but all I see is a cowardly man on the verge of dropping to his knees and begging to suck my dick.

“Please sit. Make yourselves comfortable.”

He gestures toward an arrangement of leather chairs that look so uncomfortable I’m convinced they’re solely for show. They’re like overfilled silicone tits. Pleasing to look at, but uncomfortable as fuck when you attempt to use them for their intended purpose.

A servant appears instantly, as if summoned by the Don’s breath alone, carrying a tray of crystal glasses and a decanter of amber liquor that no doubt costs more than most people’s first car.

“Drink?” The don lifts the decanter with a flourish that betrays his age.

He’s getting on in years, and it shows in the fragility with which he serves his whiskey and rules his empire.

“Aged twenty-one years. A favorite of mine.” No, he isn’t solely referring to the whiskey.

His mistresses are barely legal. It’s the “barely” part of my statement that has kept him breathing.

I don’t sit, I don’t drink, and I definitely don’t fucking pretend.

“We’re not here to share bedtime stories.” My deep timbre cuts through the fake hospitality like a blade. “It’s never about niceties when I’m sent to clean up the mess of others.”

I’m the enforcer of my family. The muscle. If I show up at your door, you should be quivering in your boots.

Don Adami’s smile falters, but he sets the decanter down with exaggerated care, as if the gesture alone will smooth over the insinuation that I’m here for carnage.

I close the distance between us. My steps aren’t threatening. They just clarify that I’m not here to be placated.

“Your sons—”

Lifting a hand, he immediately cuts the apron strings.

“Acted without my knowledge.” His reply is smooth and practiced, the kind he’s convinced will free him from being slaughtered by the wolves about to maul his offspring.

“But now that I am aware, their behavior will be handled in-house. You have my word that they’ll face appropriate repercussions for their actions. ”

His promise is worthless.

“A slap on the wrist isn’t harsh enough.

” Each of my words carries the weight of the fury I’ve been holding back since Lucia’s almost gang rape.

“Your sons crossed a line I cannot ignore, and you don’t get to sweep that under a rug because it’s convenient.

” I air-quote my last word like a man with a corn kernel for a dick.

The silence stretches as I watch him squirm. I’ve always had a fascination with the scent of fear, and today it’s especially strong.

The chandelier above us casts broken light across Don Adami’s wrinkled face, highlighting the sheen of sweat forming at his temples.

A fat bead rolls down his cheek when I finally speak. “A Cosa Nostra bloodline doesn’t excuse your sons’ actions.”

He blinks, startled, as though the concept is foreign. “Matteo, surely you understand—”

“I understand perfectly.” My tone is calm but unyielding. “Your children think being born into a powerful family means they can decide which rules apply to them. That isn’t how this works. Not anymore.”

Nico shifts beside me, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.

Elio’s jaw tics, but he stays silent, letting me speak for us all.

I might be the muscle of our operation, but I’m also smart.

I know the footwork Giovanni and Dante have been putting down the past six months will benefit our chapter more than it will harm it.

I simply refuse to tell them that since I have a sick fucking kink for pissing off my brothers.

I’m not saying I get hard when they retaliate to my teases with violence.

But I’m not denying it either.

The don tries to recover. He smooths his expression into something diplomatic. “Our families have handled matters internally for centuries. It’s tradition.”

“Tradition?” I slowly and deliberately roll the word off my tongue. “Tradition doesn’t protect rapists. And it sure as fuck didn’t protect Lucia from what your sons almost did.”

“They were not participants at the event—”

“But they organized it!” I roar, my voice bellowing. “Against the ruling of the Caruso clan and the changes we’ve implemented over the last six months. They set up the entire fucking thing. They may as well have spat in our faces.”

I never understood Dante’s concerns about raising a daughter in the Cosa Nostra until I learned how serious the Adamis’s crimes were. The gig Lucia booked last week wasn’t a one-off event. They’d held these types of parties twice a week for the past eight months.

The math is atrocious, and the statistics didn’t even come from the women they harmed. Since ninety percent of the victims couldn’t live with what happened to them, the details came from their surviving family members.

“If you want to get your rocks off with a gang-rape stimulation, hire a prostitute and state your terms in black and white for all to see. Do not disguise the gig as requiring a stripper for a bachelor party.”

Don Adami searches for a way to regain control of the conversation.

I don’t give him an inch of leeway.

“Your placement in the Cosa Nostra protects you from losing your life for this mistake, but it doesn’t make your family untouchable. Your sons will not get a free pass because of who their father is.”

The don swallows hard, his eyes flicking to Nico, then Elio, then back to me. “We will handle it.” His confidence has vanished now, replaced with something fragile. “I give you my assurance.”

“That isn’t good enough,” I say again, stilling the room.

The don’s men exchange nervous glances as my brothers stand like pillars on each side of me, silent but determined.

We’re outnumbered, but every man in this room knows that means nothing.

We took down a hundred men in under ten minutes when we walked into a room filled with more filth than a seedy back-alley abortion clinic.

For the first time since we walked in, Don Adami’s cheek twitches, a telltale sign he’s genuinely unsure. Exhaling, his shoulders drop.

“Then tell me what will be enough.”

I hold his gaze, unblinking. “I want that.” I eyeball the family crest ring on his pinkie finger. “While it’s still on your finger.”

He laughs as if I’m joking.

I’m not.

“Then order your sons to the basement.”

The lump in his throat is too thick to swallow. “Matteo—”

“Did I sound like I was asking permission? These are my terms. Either you abide by them willingly, or I’ll remove entire fucking limbs for every minute you waste delaying the inevitable.” My smirk is the smuggest to date. “Starting with your withering, no doubt wrinkled dick.”

His voice is a sob. “I didn’t know. I swear.”

“Power doesn’t erase responsibilities, Anton. It increases them.”

My words land hard in his stomach. I can see it in the way he looks away before extending his hand. I bruised his pride, and taking his ancestors’ ring in front of his soldiers while it’s still on his finger is the ultimate insult. It’ll take him months to recover—if he ever does.

Good.

I’m done playing nice.

A flicker of pain passes over Don Adami’s face when I remove my knife from my bag of tricks before slicing it across his pinkie finger just above the base knuckle.

He’s lucky his fingers are too fat for his ring to fit on his ring finger.

Although his grip will be fucked until his death just from losing a pinkie finger, all psychopaths know that the ring finger has the most associated tendons.

A spray of fresh blood follows the pop of a dislocated knuckle, and a collective hiss bounces through Don Adami’s office.

With his pinkie finger and ring in my hand, Don Adami snags a handkerchief out of his pocket and wraps it around the now nubby digit.