17. Salvatore
17
SALVATORE
Rage storms through me, splintering skin and bones until it feels like my fucking soul is going to shatter under the pressure.
He has her strung up on an engine hoist like a pig carcass.
You never should have let her go. Weak, pathetic, worthless.
Junior’s miserable, sallow face twists in indignation, but he says nothing. He hunches over and watches me with a dead-eyed look.
I’m going to skin him alive, flay him piece by piece, and then stitch it back on. I’ll bring rats and let them eat the raw flesh. I’ll roast him alive in a Brazen Bull.
I can feel Dad’s belt biting into my back.
Conquer or kill.
Kill or be conquered.
A heavy weight falls on my shoulder.
“Let me cut him up, boss,” Dom hisses in my ear, loud enough for the others to hear.
He’s buying me an out. Dom’s the only one here who’s seen me lose myself to my true, sadistic nature. He’s the only one who knows exactly what I’ll do to Junior.
I take a step through the two cars as my men follow. Every footstep thunders like the beat of war drums.
No one’s pulled out a gun yet. Good. I want Junior alive.
His gaze darts between all of us and the exit.
My skin is hot and feverish as I stop. Anger, turmoil, and grief swarm inside me, crushing my organs, swelling against my skin.
I’m not a man anymore. I am a tool, designed for suffering and pain.
“Sal.”
I glance at Marisol. Her eyes are wide, and she mouths the word please .
Her t-shirt’s soaked and plastered to her skin. Blood? Her wrists are raw. Her cheek is red, and her lip is cut.
Junior steps back from Marisol with jerky, tense movements. He’s seething.
My hands clench. He’ll be screaming soon.
But first, Marisol.
I lift her carefully from the hook, and her whimper needles into my chest as I ease her arms down. She needs a doctor. I didn’t think to bring her a doctor.
Distantly, I’m aware of Junior breaking into a dash behind me and then wheezing as someone punches him.
My men will handle him. I have a different task. I pull my knife out to saw at the ropes binding my wife. Once she’s free, she throws her arms clumsily around my waist. I touch the liquid on her shirt. Not blood. Water.
“Thank you, thank you,” she murmurs against me, and the desperation in her voice squeezes my heart so hard it feels like it’ll burst. I splay my hand over her back. I failed her.
“Marisol, go with Davide. You’ll be safe with him.”
She can rest while I begin Junior’s punishment.
“Let me stay, please ,” she whispers against my neck.
No fucking way.
Then she rubs her cheek against my chest like a stray cat, and I remember myself. I can’t lose it here. She’s alive. She needs a doctor, and I have to take her to one. I have to be strong.
I bury my face in her hair and inhale deeply, her scent dragging me back to sanity.
I have to be a good husband and take her away from here, but I can’t stop being a capo. Junior can’t go unpunished. I know exactly what I’m going to do, but it’ll require me to leash my bloodlust. I can’t lash out right now. I need precision. I need control.
Marisol shouldn’t see this, but I like knowing she’ll be within arm’s reach. And I told her we’d do things her way if she came back. If she wants to see her would-be murderer tortured, I won’t stop her.
I jerk my chin forward. Dom and Eduardo wrestle Junior through the space between the cars until he faces me.
He bursts into renewed efforts to kick, bite, and scratch out of his restraints until Dom elbows him so hard that he dry heaves.
“How was I supposed to fucking know?” Junior finally shouts. His head hangs low as he drools onto the dusty concrete below. “She said you let her go!”
“That’s between me and my wife,” I say, pressing Marisol against me by the curve of her waist. I want to gauge her reaction, but right now, all my focus is on Junior.
“You fucking liar,” Junior spits. “You’re not married. You just didn’t want me to have her! Papà?—”
“Papà isn’t here right now.” I sigh, disappointed. “I am. And while Papà’s gone, I’ll have to be the one who punishes you.”
“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuckyoufuckyou ? — ”
“Gag him,” I call out over Junior’s incoherent screams.
Davide darts over to a pile of rags against a wall and tears one into strips. He stuffs one piece of filthy cloth into Junior’s mouth and wraps another around his head. Junior howls against the fabric, every vein in his neck bulging out as my men hold him back.
I pull away gently from Marisol and step forward to drive a heavy fist into Junior’s stomach.
He tries to lurch forward to retch, but I grab the back of his gag and haul him up to face me instead.
“We’re going to start with you apologizing to my wife.”
Finally, I look at Marisol. I expect any number of things—this isn’t the first time I’ve had a witness nearby. Her eyes should be wide open and her hands squeezed together, although from what I know of her, I expect her to be studying Junior with grim satisfaction. Instead, I’m stunned.
I’ve never seen her look more alive.
Marisol flicks her bright, fascinated gaze between Junior and me. She doesn’t turn away—she leans in, magnetized. Her little pink tongue darts out to swipe her lower lip, and her skin glows with the radiance of a sunrise filtered through stained glass.
She looks the exact same as when she spread her beautiful legs for me, and for a moment, I deeply regret bringing my men here with me. This is a sight for my eyes only.
I should’ve known better. My girl loves to win.
I smack Junior on the back of the head.
“Apologize.” The rags stifle his screams. I lean in. “Again, Junior. I can’t hear you.”
He roars impotently. It sounds a lot like fuck you , but Marisol doesn’t seem to care. She hasn’t blinked once. Would she be just as satisfied if I’d been the one caught and gagged—a taste of revenge for locking her in my basement? Am I just a tool to realize her will and be cast away once my job’s finished? After all my observations of her, I can’t answer with certainty.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. I’ll let her do whatever she likes to me once we’re home—she’s not the only one whose blood sings in the face of violence. She can punish me, and then after I can show her again how good I can make her feel.
“Passerotta, come here,” I say, dropping Junior’s head and extending my palm out to Marisol. She approaches me and places her hand in mine. I take full advantage of the moment to draw her close and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her lips part as she directs a gaze toward me that’s full of gentle adoration. If this is how she plans to manipulate me, she’s going to find it’s very effective. “Tell me, bella, what did this man threaten you with?”
Her gaze darts to Junior.
“Don’t look at him. Look at me. Tell me,” I admonish her gently, tilting her face back to me. In this room, I can be as familiar as I want with her. It’s a performance. I’m playing the part of big bad capo, and Marisol’s my delicate, innocent wife.
She leans into my hand as she considers my demands. There’s not a thing I could deny her right now. “He told me he would send back your ring with a souvenir. A finger or an eye.”
I skim my thumb along her cheek, and her eyelashes flutter. “How about I give you a souvenir? A wedding present. Your choice. A finger or an eye.”
Next to me, Junior stills, as hooked on Marisol’s next words as I am.
Aldo and the Outfit will more easily accept a finger as acceptable retribution, but I hope she picks an eye. It’ll help me sleep at night, knowing Junior’s out there suffering as much as possible before I’m able to hunt him down and finish him off.
Marisol kisses my fingertips and murmurs against them, “I want his eye.”
Junior breaks into an explosion of frantic struggle. Davide joins Dom and Eduardo as they wrestle him in place.
My new wife’s a bloodthirsty little thing. I lean down, daring to drop a kiss onto her full lips. Our first. “Anything for you,” I tell her. Her breath hitches.
I turn to Junior, softness melting from me like flesh from bone. Junior glares up at me with every ounce of hate he can muster, but with my men securing him and dirty rags in his mouth, it’s laughable. I brace myself. I’ve done this a few times before, but digging an eye out of a socket is a tricky thing. They’re slippery, and I don’t want to smash it too badly before giving it to Marisol.
I grip Junior’s head in my hands and dip a thumb into the corner of his eye. Anticipation skitters down my spine. This, at least, I can do perfectly for her.
I push, digging in with calculated force as Junior thrashes against the men holding him. His eye shifts, smashing against the shell of his socket like a grape in a shot glass, and it takes me a couple of tries until it pops out, still connected by the optical nerves. I saw at the slippery fibers with my pocket knife until finally, I have my bloody prize.
Pressure eases from my chest. I exhale.
Junior looks like a fucking nightmare. His face is covered in blood as he screams and screams against his bonds.
Marisol holds her hand out to me, and I stifle my surprise as I place the eye in her hand. Is this for show too? She cups it like it were a baby bird that’s fallen from its nest and rises on her toes to kiss my cheek.
“Thank you,” she says. “I love it.”
If any of my men thought she was a temptation before, they’re likely to swear themselves off her now. Good.
She’s just for me.
I lean toward Junior who’s howling and crying and fighting against his restraints. “Next time I see you, I’ll kill you.”
With that, I sweep Marisol into my arms and call out over my shoulder, “Bind his hands and throw him on the hook.”