Chapter 2
Two
Cristian
Dario groans when I fist his shirt collar and shove him into a corner, out of earshot from Natalia.
“Touch her, and you’ll be pissing blood for the next month,” I hiss, tightening my grip.
Dario fails to meet my eyes. “Yes, boss.”
Natalia bruised his ego by questioning his competence in keeping her safe.
Not that I blame her. We brought Dario into the family two weeks ago, and he’s yet to show his worth, making him the perfect babysitter for the woman who has yet to prove her worth. I consider tonight a trial for them both.
Dario rubs at his neck when I release him. Without granting him or Natalia another glance, I walk out of the mansion and into the night. My chauffeur, Francis, is waiting for me in front of a running Escalade in the horseshoe driveway.
“Good evening, Mr. Marchetti,” Francis greets, tipping his hat down before opening the SUV door for me.
I nod in acknowledgment and duck into the leather back seat.
“Why is Lombardi Jr.’s girl here?” Rocky asks from the front seat as soon as Francis shuts the door behind me.
Rocky is my consigliere—ranking underneath my son, Benny.
His family has worked for the Marchetti family for three generations.
He’s been loyal to me since the day I took over after my father’s murder.
He was at my side when I had to prove that even though I was young, I could run the family better than any of the other incompetent motherfuckers who thought they could do a better job because they were as old as dirt.
I clench my jaw at him referring to Natalia as Vinny’s girl.
I hardly know Natalia, but she deserves better than Vinny.
Hell, the hookers on the corner who blow men and then rob them in hotel rooms deserve better than him.
Better than the men they rob, really. I’m shocked the idiot is still breathing with his hotheaded temper.
“She’s not his girl.” I crack my knuckles and sit back when Francis joins us in the SUV. “He put a bounty on her, so she came to me for protection.”
“Since when do we play bodyguard to random bitches?” Rocky huffs, shaking his scarred bald head. “If they aren’t family, they aren’t shit—”
His shoulders tighten when the barrel of my Glock 19 presses to the side of his skull. I always keep a piece within reach for situations like this.
“That’s my daughter’s best friend.” I grind the barrel into his head. “Call her a bitch again, and you won’t have a mouth to do it a second time.”
“Sorry, boss.” Rocky slowly lifts his hands and rests them on the glove box. “My apologies.”
Loyal or not, I won’t tolerate disrespect. We will protect whomever I want, whenever I want, and I want no argument out of my men.
I make a point to add extra pressure on his skull before drawing my gun away and sitting back. “Natalia will offer every detail the Lombardi moron told her.”
Rocky shakes his head. “Vinny isn’t dumb. He wouldn’t have told her shit.”
“Vinny is one of the stupidest motherfuckers in the world. I guarantee you, he told her too much.”
Rocky only nods—smart enough not to continue arguing with me.
“Information is information.” I smirk, ready to deliver further punishment for him mouthing off. “Make sure Natalia doesn’t die while feeding me that information. She dies, you die.”
Rocky twists in his seat to look at me in irritation. “What?”
“Keep the bitch alive, Rocky.” I enunciate each word sternly.
“I thought calling her a bitch was off-limits?” Rocky sounds like a teenage girl bitching rather than a man in his fifties.
“Off-limits to you. Nothing is off-limits to me.”
He forces a composed expression on his face. “You’re using her to get to Vinny, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I reply with no shame.
I will squeeze everything out of Natalia.
Then, she will become bait.
“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” I taunt. Like a vulture, I circle the stupid motherfucker who owes me a hundred grand. “I’ve given you enough time to bring me my money.”
“I’m trying, Cristian!” Mickey screeches, spitting out blood. “I’m trying!”
“Trying, huh?” Without allowing him a chance to reply, I slam my fist into his face and smirk in satisfaction at the sound of his nose cracking. “Word is, you’re shooting my money up your veins.”
Junkies are the worst people to owe you money. They think of their next high over their lives.
“Fuck!” Mickey cries, flinging his head back as blood gushes from his nose.
We took Mickey from his deli an hour ago after he admitted he still didn’t have my money.
We dragged him into the warehouse, kicking and screaming, and shoved him into the chair.
After pulling the burlap bag off his head, I provided him the same opportunity I do to other men who have disrespected me.
A chance to save himself.
I told him the rules of my Seven Seconds game with a shit-eating grin. A game I created a decade ago because, over time, murder had grown boring. I’ve yet to lose a round of Seven Seconds.
I gave Mickey seven life-saving seconds to run and dodge the single bullet I’d shoot at him.
Most men at least attempt to save themselves.
But I didn’t even have to waste a bullet on Mickey.
The imbecile tripped and fell on his face before making two steps.
He then crawled back onto the chair and begged me not to kill him.
Men begging and crying for their lives becomes a goddamn headache.
My wife. My kids. My fucking Pomeranian.
It’s laughable that these men assume I care about their lives.
That I have a heart worthy of compassion.
I’ve murdered men.
Thrown dead bodies into the Hudson.
Watched men’s skin dissolve off their bodies after I poured acid over them.
Then, as if I were an average family man, I’d attend my daughter’s dance recital with no regrets.
You wrong me, my family, or my business, you die.
“Please,” Mickey pleads, raising his dirty hands. “Don’t make my kids grow up without a father, Cristian. You have kids!”
I place a palm on my chest over my heart in fake sincerity. “You weren’t thinking about your children when you chose not to pay me.”
“Give me three days!” Drool slides down his chin. “I’ll go to every bank for a loan on the deli tomorrow.” He groans in pain, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I’ll even give you half the deli.”
“No one wants your piece-of-shit deli,” Rocky shouts before taking a bite of the roast beef sandwich he took from said deli.
“It generates good money! I’ll give you every cent it makes until you’re paid back.”
Out of patience, I shoot Mickey in the face. His head jerks back on impact before his body slumps in the chair. Blood leaks from the cracks in his skull and begins puddling on the concrete floor.
“Burn down the deli with his body inside,” I instruct Rocky. “Leave a suicide note in his car, apologizing for being a worthless father.” I gesture toward the blood. “Make sure this is scrubbed clean.”
I spit on Mickey’s dead body before tipping the chair over. His body collapses onto the floor with a thud. Motherfucker took too much time out of my night when I had more important shit to do.
Rocky nods, an evil smile on his lips. “I’ll call our boys Lorenzo and Luca.”
Just another day in the office.
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