29. ANTONIO
Passerotta
Make me!
Her challenge still lingers in my mind, curling around my thoughts like smoke. Every time I hear it, I smirk. Probably not the best look to have when you’re in the middle of beating the shit out of a Venezuelan for information, but fuck it.
Even I’m allowed a distraction.
"Where did he take them?" I ask Ricci again.
"Fuck you." His face is a bloody mess; so is my suit. Fuck. That guy bleeds like a stuck pig.
We picked up the Venezuelan from his house. Casimo, the underboss that I left in charge of LA, provided the intel. This guy is one of Matías' cabecillas—regional commanders.
"I don't think this guy knows anything," I turn to Vito.
Vito plays right along. "Some trust Matías must have in his cabecillas if he doesn't inform them about shit like that."
"He's probably not even a cabecilla. Casimo, was your intel wrong?"
Casimo blanches. He doesn’t know me like Vito and doesn't understand that this is a game. "No, boss, I swear, this guy is a cabecilla."
"Hah," I kneel in front of Ricci, pulling out a knife and running it up and down his inner thigh. "Well, are you? Are you a cabecilla, or are you just a lowly soldado?"
His dark eyes flare underneath all the swelling as he lifts his head, "Fuck you."
"So inventive," Vito tsks.
"I don't have time for this shit," I curse.
Gigi sent me a text earlier telling me she's hanging out with Scarlet.
I only briefly browsed through the list of items she felt compelled to tell me she bought.
I'm glad she did, but I'm still going to take her on that little shopping spree I promised her.
I despise shopping. But I'm actually looking forward to this trip.
I want to see Scarlet's eyes sparkle when she sees what I have planned…
"Boss?" Vito inquires. "You good?"
"No, I'm not fucking good," I reply. "You see, asshole," I lift Ricci's chin with the blade of my knife, "I promised my lady I'd take her shopping, and you, my friend," I draw the knife over his cheek, making it bleed, "are keeping me from fulfilling that promise. You know what that makes me?"
"Fuck you!" he spits out again.
"Well, that's what I'm hoping to get to after the shopping," I admit, making another cut on the other cheek. "This is making me fucking cranky," I fill him in.
"Fuck you."
I roll my eyes and rise. "Looks like our friend doesn't mind being cut up," I tell Vito.
Vito smirks. “Maybe he just needs a little more motivation, boss.”
I sigh, rolling my shoulders. This asshole is wasting my fucking time. I glance at Ricci, bleeding all over the floor like a broken faucet, his eyes swollen but still full of defiance. Stupid fuck. He should know by now that I don’t have patience for bravado.
I squat down, keeping my knife light in my hand, running the tip along his jawline. “You got a death wish, cabrón? Because that’s the only explanation for why you’re still mouthing off.”
He glares at me, silent. Good. That means his brain is catching up to his situation. I press the tip of the knife into his shoulder, just enough to make him hiss. “You know what happens when you play hero?” I tilt my head. “You die screaming, and nobody remembers your name.”
Still nothing. I let out an exaggerated sigh and gesture to one of my men. “Bring me the bolt cutters.”
The room shifts. Even Vito straightens slightly, eyes flicking to Ricci, who finally shows a reaction—a flicker of panic. Good. He knows what’s coming. A man in his position has probably used the bolt cutters a time or two.
Ricci’s breathing picks up as I roll my sleeves up, making a show of it. I don’t rush. This isn’t about speed. This is about letting the fear soak in, crawl under his skin, and eat at him.
The bolt cutters land with a loud clatter on the table beside me. I run my fingers over the handle. “You know what I like about these?” I ask conversationally. “They don’t kill you right away. They just make life… inconvenient.”
His throat bobs. I squat back down in front of him, tapping the cutters against my palm. “How many fingers do you think you need to wipe your ass?” I ask. “Three? Two? One?”
“Go to hell,” he grits out.
I shake my head. “See, that’s not the answer I was looking for.”
I nod at Vito, who steps forward, grabs Ricci’s left hand, and stretches it out against the chair arm. I place the cutters over his pinky finger. Vito allows him to struggle for a moment. But he’s tied too tight. He’s not getting out of this.
I smile. “Last chance.”
Silence.
I squeeze.
The sickening crunch of bone and cartilage shattering fills the room as Ricci howls. I let him scream. Let him feel it. I drop his severed finger onto his lap, wiping my blade clean on his sleeve. “One down.”
His chest heaves, and his sweat mixes with his blood.
I lift the cutters again. “Now, where did they take Alfonso?”
His head shakes violently. “I–I don’t?—”
I move to the next finger.
He cracks.
“Okay! Okay! Fuck—they’re keeping him in a safehouse in Boyle Heights! Near the bridge, an old barbershop in front. The back entrance leads to the basement!”
My head turns to Casimo, "You know that place?"
He nods, "I know where it is."
I lean back, satisfied. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Vito releases him, and Ricci slumps forward, gasping.
I stand up, brushing off my sleeves. “Patch him up enough so he doesn’t bleed out before I decide when I’m going to kill him.”
Ricci is staring at the finger on his lap, trying to dislodge it. I grab his hair, "I'm going to check out your intel, and if it was wrong, I'm coming back and we'll cut some more, starting with your balls. Capiche?"
Then, without looking back, I walk toward the door.
“We’re going hunting.”