16. Dante
DANTE
I finish my book and walk upstairs to head to bed. As I near my door, though, I hear Elio calling my name.
I frown and walk toward his office. The door is slightly ajar. I push it open.
“Close the door.”
My throat tightens. He doesn’t… know, does he? I wrack my brain, trying to think of a time I’d kissed Samantha in front of the cameras, in front of Ricardo, anything. I haven’t.
We’ve been careful.
We haven’t even slept together in weeks since Elio has been home, trying to suss out the rat in our midst.
I’m not much help.
I don’t know the rest of Elio’s men well since I was out of the country for so long, and I’m not exactly a social butterfly now.
“What’s up?” I ask quietly.
“Sit down.”
Panic makes my stomach roll as I look up at him. His face is dead serious. I wait for him to speak.
“I need your help.”
I want to sag in relief but I keep myself stiff. I nod. “Anytime, boss.”
Elio pinches the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb before sighing. “I’m setting up to figure out if there really is a rat or not, and it happens tonight.”
I blink. “Tonight? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I had to be sure, Dante.”
Hurt pierces through me. “You thought it was me?”
“Don’t be offended,” Elio says quickly. “I just… I had to be sure.”
I frown. “And why are you sure now?”
“Because I didn’t tell you about the latest shipment. I sent three of my other men.” He pauses. “It takes three of them to equal one of you.”
The compliment doesn’t help the rock in my throat. “And it got hit?”
He nods. “Oscar was killed.”
I draw in a sharp breath. I know Oscar Moretti. Or… knew him. We all went to high school together. I wasn’t as close to him as Elio, but still… “Ricci?”
He scoffs. “Who else? Took one of his men, though. He’s in the basement panic room.”
My stomach rolls again, thinking about the panic room—the soundproof walls, the claustrophobic small space. All the instruments of torture set out on a metal table. The drain for the blood.
It’s been a while since I’ve had to use it. Years.
“You want me to interrogate him.”
“Yes. And I want you with me for the next shipment.”
“You’re going yourself?” I ask incredulously. “You can’t do that, Elio. If Ricci sees you—”
Elio waves his hand dismissively. “He’s not going to be there. You know he doesn’t do his own dirty work. Not for years.”
Not since Grace.
He doesn’t say it, but I know that Luciano went underground when Grace passed away, as devastated by her death as Elio was. He’s barely been seen since.
“Still, it’s dangerous,” I warn.
“Not with you there.” Elio smiles.
“I’m glad you have such faith in me.” Now. “But Elio, if something happens to you…”
“It won’t. I’ve already called Ricardo, he’s coming to watch over Samantha.”
“Now?” I glance at my watch. “It’s nearly midnight.”
He smiles, showing his canines. It’s a dangerous, predator’s smile. “Exactly why he won’t be expecting us to be there. He thinks I’m going to tuck my tail between my legs, lick my wounds after Oscar. He’s wrong.”
I let out a long breath. “And Ricci’s man in the panic room? Who is he?”
“I want you to interrogate him first. Kill him if he won’t talk,” Elio says easily. “He’s only given his last name. Grice. He’s not even Italian.”
Elio’s serious about his Sicilian heritage, and that all his men should be from the homeland, at least genetically. Even though there are exceptions—like Ricardo, for example, and a few of our drivers.
My own father was full blooded Sicilian, but the only reason I know that is because he showed up at my foster family’s house once.
Threatened to kill them all, bragged about his heritage.
To this day, I don’t know if he was lying or not. But my skin is olive and my name is Italian, anyway, and that’s good enough for Elio.
“You’ve got an hour to interrogate him,” Elio says, snapping me out of my thoughts. I stand up and head for the exit, wanting to get this over with. I don’t relish in torture, even if I have to do it. “And Dante?”
I glance back at him at the doorway.
“I’m sorry I ever doubted you. I know how loyal you’ve always been.”
Right. Loyal.
So loyal I’ve been fucking his baby girl.
I nod sharply and head downstairs. I walk through the gym to the back of the basement, where a steel door stands.
I punch in the keycode—Samantha’s birthday.
The door slides open and the man jerks awake, straining at his restraints, biceps bulging.
He’s a big guy, nearly as tall and broad as me, but Elio’s got him locked down with zipties around his ankles and wrists, tying him to the chair. I don’t recognize him, but his eyes widen like he recognizes me.
“You’re Elio’s bulldog,” he rasps.
I grin despite myself. “Haven’t heard that nickname yet. Not bad.”
“I’ve heard about you. They say you bite down and don’t let go.”
“Is that what they say?”
He swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple working as I walk over to the instrument table. The instruments are silver, shining in the bright overhead light of the room. I look down at the floor and see the years of blood staining the hardwood.
I draw in a deep breath and go somewhere else in my mind. The beach, maybe. I’ve always liked the ocean breeze.
Unbidden, I think of Samantha. I picture her standing on a balcony overlooking the ocean, the wind whipping her dark hair around her face. She looks back at me, smiling, and I shake my head to clear it.
“Look, man, you don’t have to do this. I’ll tell you everything I know, but I don’t know much.”
I hum. “You’d be surprised how much you know when the shit hits the fan.” I pick up a scalpel, freshly sharpened. Elio keeps this place pristine, other than the bloodstains. He says it gives it “ambiance.” Whatever that means. “Grice, right?”
He trembles. “Yes. Peter Grice.”
“Nice to meet you, Pete,” I say, crouching in front of him, the scalpel in my right hand. “You don’t mind if I call you Pete, do you?”
He shakes his head quickly. “Please–” he whines, but I ignore him.
I take his hand and he tries to wrench away, closing his fist over the chair arm. “Uh-uh,” I scold, peeling his fingers straight. “This will only hurt more if you struggle. This scalpel is sharp, and if I slip, I might take off a finger. Or two.”
He freezes, stretches his fingers out. “Good job, Pete. You’re doing great.”
“Wh-what are you doing?”
I place the scalpel tip right beneath the nailbed of his thumb. “Nothing too permanent. Your nail will grow back. Takes a few months for a thumbnail, though.”
He screams but it comes out quiet and reedy. His hands shake. “I told you I’ll tell you all I know!”
I rock back on my heels, looking up at his terrified brown eyes. I feel nothing. Blank. Like an empty canvas. “Go on then, Pete. Tell me.”
“I work for Luciano Ricci.”
I tsk. “I already knew that, Pete.” I push the scalpel forward and pop his thumbnail up like a garage door.
He screams again, louder this time, rocking the chair as much as it’ll rock. It’s bolted to the floor, but it’s a little loose. I’ll have to tell Elio that we need to tighten it. I hum. “Tell me something I don’t know this time, Pete.”
He breathes out a harsh breath, trying to calm himself. “There’s a rat in Elio’s army.”
I sigh and move the scalpel to the thumb on his left hand, this time. Pop it up even as he struggles and screams. Blood trickles down the chair arm and drips onto the floor.
“I knew that, too. You’re starting to bore me, Pete. And do you know what happens to bulldogs when they get bored?”
He yelps, tears running down his face. Doesn’t respond otherwise. I finish anyway.
“They become a little… destructive.”
I start to unlace one of his shoes and he kicks and fights against the restraints, rocking the chair slightly. “Please, man, I have a daughter,” he sobs, and I pause, looking up at him. His eyes widen. “Six months old.”
I wait, watching his face. He swallows, licking his lips and leaning forward as if to convince me. “Do you have kids?”
“No.”
I tug off his shoe, toss it behind me. It thuds against the steel door.
“Okay, okay! There’s more!”
“Thought there might be.” I glance at my watch. It’s only been ten minutes and two thumbnails. Luciano really knows how to pick them.
“I don’t know who the rat is,” he says, but quickly continues. “He won’t tell us, but I know it’s somebody close. An enforcer.”
I suspect Elio’s already narrowed it down to his inner circle. That’s why he suspected me.
There’s five of us, even though over the last few years, I’ve done most of the work. Me, Ricardo, Oscar de Luca, Marco Tucci, and Leo Dal.
Oscar’s dead and it’s not me.
Ricardo’s unlikely because he’s been watching over Samantha, just like me. That leaves Marco and Leo.
Narrows it down quite a bit.
I grin at Pete and he seems to relax slowly, wide shoulders slumping. “Guess I won’t have to take your toenails after all. You’ve been a real help, Pete.” I stand up, clapping my left hand on his shoulder.
“Th-thank you,” he stutters. “Thank you, thank you.”
I slit his throat with the scalpel in my other hand and his gratitude turns into gurgles as blood soaks his white shirt. I watch him as he bleeds out, the sound of the bolted chair rocking and his wheezing and gurgling the only sound in the room.
I step back as the blood starts to flow toward me. It’s almost mesmerizing as it circles the drain.
I snap out of it, shaking my head again. I’m off my game. I step out of the panic room. I’ve managed to keep my hands clean.
Relatively.
I head to the downstairs bathroom to wash my hands, picking blood out from under my thumbnail with my other one. As I walk up the stairs to get dressed to go with Elio, Samantha’s coming down. She hesitates on a step, her eyes meeting mine.
She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. Feels almost wrong to speak to her after what I just did. I give her a slight smile, though, and she smiles back. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Something’s wrong.
The thought hits me like a freight train, but there’s nothing specific I can put my finger on.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“Sofia isn’t exactly the best bedfellow.”