Chapter 16
SCORPION
Cantarelli is tied to a chair in the warehouse, wrists and ankles bound.
He’s blindfolded, and blood is splattered around him, dripping down his neck and hands.
The stain on the crotch of his slacks makes it more than apparent that he pissed himself.
We’ve intentionally forced him to wait like this for an hour, all while the same annoying-ass song was blasting through the speakers over and over.
The music is silent now. No sounds but his ragged breathing.
“Who’s there?” he demands.
Lucky and I exchange a look, and I shake my head.
Cantarelli doesn’t know who took him off the street or why. He’s been worked over by our guys. Fingernails pulled. The tip of a finger cut off. Part of his ear.
The element of surprise is important here. We need to use his fear to our advantage. To try to get the truth out of him.
I drag a chair along the concrete floor so that I’m close enough to reach him and sit.
“Who do you think is here?” I ask sharply. “I’ll give you one guess. If you get it wrong, I’m going to take the rest of your ear.”
“I-I don’t know,” he stammers. “Don Andriani?”
“Wrong answer, stronzo.” Lucky pulls out a blade and walks up behind him, holding the blade to Cantarelli’s earlobe and starting to slice.
He screams as a new bead of blood forms on the shining blade, gliding down his already bloodied neck.
“Please don’t,” he begs.
“All right, let’s play a game,” I suggest. “Tell me why you think you’re here. If you’re wrong, something will happen to you that you’re not going to like. If you’re right, we’ll take off your blindfold, and you can see for yourself who we are.”
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he blurts. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well, fuck, Giuseppe,” I say slowly. “That just wasn’t the right answer.”
Lucky picks up a sledgehammer and swings it, hitting Cantarelli in the right kneecap. The sickening thud of metal on bone is a sound I’m more than familiar with. Cantarelli screams.
Sweat is dripping down his face. “Is this about the deal that went bad last night? I-I didn’t have anything to do with it. I wasn’t even there.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” I stand up, moving closer. “Why weren’t you there, Cantarelli? It was your fucking deal.”
“Sc-Scorpion?” he blurts, his head moving wildly toward the sound of my voice even though the blindfold is still on. “Is that you? I c-can explain. I couldn’t go. S-something came up with my wife.”
I put my loafer on his mangled knee and push, slowly applying all my weight as he cries out in agony. “We’ve already asked her if there was any reason you couldn’t do your job last night. Do you know what she said, Giuseppe?”
“Fucking fuck,” he cries out as I grind the sole of my shoe deeper into his knee and then press the barrel of my Glock to his temple.
“You’re running out of time to give me answers,” I warn him.
“Don’t shoot me, don’t shoot me,” he cries out. “I swear I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That million dollars you’re trying to transfer to an offshore account begs to differ,” Lucky says.
“What do you think, Luck? Should I end him?”
“Please!” Cantarelli shouts. “I can explain. Let me explain!”
“Now, or it’s over.” I jam the gun deeper into his temple for emphasis.
It’s already over for him, but he has the choice to come clean and have an easy death or to prolong this. We’ll make him suffer all fucking night.
“It was the fucking Russians,” he spits.
“I’ve been gambling in one of their clubs.
I got in too deep. I was going to lose everything I’ve worked for.
My cars, my house, my wife and kids… Then one of them came to me with a proposition.
They’d wipe my debts and give me a million.
All I had to do was arrange for a drug deal between us and the cartel.
I didn’t know anyone was going to get killed, I fucking swear. ”
Lucky and I exchange a glance—we’re on the same page. Part of what Cantarelli is saying makes sense, but not the last half.
“Bullshit,” I tell him. “You thought they’d just forgive your debts and send you packing with a million bucks to arrange a coke deal? Do you think we’re fucking stupid?”
“N-no,” he blurts. “I don’t think that.”
“Luck, I think this stronzo is insulting our intelligence,” I say. “How about you?”
Lucky’s knife presses into Cantarelli’s neck. “Maybe he needs to learn a lesson.”
The blade goes deeper. Fresh blood trickles down. I take the Glock from Cantarelli’s temple, pick up the sledgehammer, and shatter his other kneecap. He’s crying, snot running down his face. Blood everywhere.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please just stop.”
“Which Russian came to you with the proposal?” I demand, gripping the handle of the sledge and prepared to give it another go.
“I don’t know,” he blurts.
But he doesn’t need to tell me. I’m already sure I know it’s Dmitri Sidorov. He was an enforcer for the last Pakhan, and now that his brother has taken on the role, nothing has changed. But I also can’t deny the surge of disappointment that strangles me at the realization.
We’re supposed to be riding the high of a truce, but if what I suspect is true, the Bratva is back-dooring us. They paid one of our capos to have our crew ambushed along with the cartel guys.
And if that’s the case, there’s only one conclusion to draw. They’re trying to start a war between us and the cartel.
“Which Russian arranged this?” Lucky presses, cutting a little deeper.
“I don’t know. Fuck. Please don’t kill me.” Cantarelli is openly weeping now.
I don’t feel a fucking thing.
“I’ll show you the mercy you showed the men you sent to their deaths.” I push the barrel of the Glock into his mouth. “Unless you tell us the truth…”
I’m about to end him when a gunshot rings out, followed by another. My upper left arm stings, but I can’t worry about whether I’ve been hit or not.
Lucky and I both crouch down, using Cantarelli as a shield.
I do a quick scan, Glock raised, looking for the source of the bullets.
This is our warehouse, on our turf, guarded by our own men.
No one should be able to get in here. There’s only one way in, and the doorway is empty.
Whoever it was who got off those shots, he’s gone now.
“Fuck,” Lucky says, nodding toward Cantarelli.
His head is slumped forward. He’s been hit. We weren’t finished with him yet. We were about to get a more definitive idea of who he was working with. Which Russian was holding the puppet strings.
“Call the guys standing guard,” I tell my brother. “I’ve got your back.”
He doesn’t waste time getting on his burner. But there’s no answer. Which means that either our guards are dead or they’re somehow incapacitated. Either way, it’s no fucking good.
“Try the men down the street,” I tell him, eyes locked on the empty doorway.
That’s when I realize Cantarelli’s gone quiet. He’s not weeping, not breathing raggedly, not moaning in pain. I pull back his hanging head to confirm my suspicions.
“Cantarelli is fucking dead,” I tell Lucky grimly.
“Our guy’s been taken out,” Lucky tells the guard he’s got on the line. “Someone shot him, and the guards on duty here aren’t answering. We don’t know if the shooter is still in the building, but we need backup. Keep your heads down.”
I shoot off a text to Saint, realizing not all the blood I’m spattered with is Cantarelli’s. Some of it’s mine too.
Cazzo, just what I need.
I’ve been nicked by a bullet. But even worse, the bastard responsible for killing Cantarelli before I could get the information I needed out of him is still on the loose.
“Let’s try to get the hell out of here,” I tell Lucky. “We’re sitting ducks in here as is.”
“If they wanted us dead, we’d be bleeding out right now,” Lucky says. “They were only after one thing.”
“Making sure Cantarelli didn’t rat,” I agree.
And I’m more certain than ever that I know exactly who is behind it and why.
Everything after that unfolds in a blur. We meet up with the crew Lucky called in for backup and case the building, but the shooter is long gone. Our guards stationed at the entrance to the warehouse are dead, their throats slit. It’s not the work of one man, but I recognize the calling card.
Dmitri Sidorov is better known as the Executioner for a good reason.
“You know what this means,” Lucky says to me as our guys drag off the bodies for disposal. “Don’t you?”
I scrub a hand over my jaw with my right hand, my left hanging at my side—the bleeding slowed, thank fuck, but now that the adrenaline is wearing off, the pain is starting to hit me.
“We’re about to have a fucking war on our hands.”
Katya
We are knee-deep in lemon drops and worry as midnight rolls around, ensconced in the movie theater in Priest and Luna’s basement.
We’ve been watching a lackluster adaptation of a Jane Austen novel.
Luna gave up on keeping the divine lasagna we made warm for the guys and long since conveyed it to the fridge for safekeeping.
The Andriani brothers are nowhere to be found.
Until the phones ring.
Luna’s first, then Isla’s within seconds. Luna hits pause and listens intently. Isla does the same. And that’s when I realize, even through the haze of lemon drops infecting my brain, that not all the phones rang.
Mine is notably silent.
It doesn’t matter. What did I expect, a loving and relieved call from my kidnapper turned reluctant husband? If so, I clearly need another lemon drop. With that thought in mind, I bring my martini glass to my lips, sipping as I study Luna and Isla, taking it all in.
From what I can glean, the word is the same. The men are on their way back. I watch my counterparts talking to their husband and boyfriend on the phone, noticing the way their expressions relax and their smiles return, and I know everyone is safe and all is well.
For now anyway.
Relief hits me, followed by irritation so extreme that I want to scream it aloud. He disappears on me the day after our wedding and can’t be bothered to call me and let me know he’s okay?
I feel like the feral cat he accused me of being, ready to show my claws and fangs, to take a bite if necessary.
“Love you too, baby,” Luna is saying softly into her phone.
“You promise?” Isla asks, smiling to herself as her eyes take on a faraway look. “Love you more.”
I finish my lemon drop, because clearly, I’m not drunk enough to deal with bullshit and not get furious. I try my hardest not to allow Lorenzo’s radio silence to bother me. It’s not like we’re in love. We aren’t Priest and Luna or Saint and Isla.
We were forced into this marriage and barely know each other. He doesn’t owe me a call. He doesn’t owe me false platitudes.
But I’m bothered.
Not gonna lie.
Also, not gonna admit it.
Luna and Isla end their calls within seconds of each other. Luna tells me that the guys are in the same car, traveling together. Translation: my husband obviously had no desire to call me.
“They’re on their way back,” Luna adds with a forced brightness that makes me instantly suspicious.
“Is everything alright?” I ask, instantly giving in to my fears although I promised myself I wouldn’t.
And even though I don’t think Lorenzo is worthy of my concern.
“There was a problem, but it’s been contained,” Luna reassures me.
“Kind of,” Isla adds.
Which is not reassuring at all.
“How far out are they?” I ask instead of giving voice to any of the misgivings filtering through me.
“About half an hour,” Luna says. “Not far.”
My heart starts beating faster.
Lorenzo is on his way back. The evening has been chill, and I’ve actually enjoyed myself.
Luna and Isla are the kind of women I’d want to be friends with on my own if I hadn’t already met them in this fucked-up situation.
They’re smart, funny, and kind. I’ve allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security.
Fucking English professors and lemon drops.
This is what I get.
What I deserve.
“Everyone is okay?” I ask because I’m a complete idiot and I can’t keep myself from worrying about my husband, a man I barely know.
A man who kidnapped me.
The enemy.
I’m so fucked.
“Mostly,” Isla says.
“Yes,” Luna answers at the same time.
Then they give each other a look.
I’m more on edge, and I don’t know why, even as I blurt out a question.
“Did something happen with Scorpion?”
“No,” Luna answers quickly.
Too quickly.
“Why do you ask?” Isla questions, her tone bright.
Almost forced.
Luna and Isla share another glance, and not for the first time tonight, I feel the separation.
I’m not part of their circle, at least not when it comes to family business.
I’m an outsider, looking in, the same way I’ve been my whole life.
The only place I’ve ever really belonged is in ballet, on the stage.
“They’re all fine,” Luna says.
I’m not sure if I believe her. I want to. I feel like we’ve bonded.
But the truth is, I don’t know Luna or Isla well enough. I don’t know any of these people, and yet, I’m at their mercy. It’s just like the cabin, only I’m not handcuffed to a bed in the middle of nowhere. I still have to answer to Scorpion, but now I share his name.
“Let’s finish the movie,” Isla suggests.
I’m desperate for distraction, so I agree, trying to lose myself in the screen and shut out reality for a little bit longer.
I don’t know if it’s the lemon drops or the bone-deep exhaustion from everything that’s happened over the last few days that hits me harder, but one minute I’m watching a dapper Regency gentleman bow at a ball, and the next my eyelids are too heavy to keep open.
I snuggle deeper into the movie theater seat and stop trying to fight it.