MARCELLO
The ride to the warehouse is quiet. Luciano is even more close-mouthed than usual. I spy a long red hair on his lapel, but I don't comment. When he's ready to talk about the fiery redhead, he will.
He's more of a brother to me than Angelo ever was.
We've bled and buried bodies together, and he helped me build my empire.
There's nothing we haven't shared—except the women we don't talk about.
But even brothers need boundaries. Now and then, a man deserves a corner of his life that's just his.
As long as it doesn't interfere with the job, I let him have it.
I don't like secrets, but loyalty buys a lot of leeway.
The warehouse is a little way from the docking stations. I've been looking to find a closer place to buy, but all of them—unsurprisingly—are owned by other mafia bosses who won't—understandably—sell.
"What do we know?" I ask Marco when Luciano and I enter.
"Nothing yet, boss, they're both tight-lipped. We smacked them around a bit, but nothing."
The two men are seated, tied to their chairs, facing each other. Not my first choice, but I've seen this work. It's a fifty-fifty shot, depending on the men.
"I have an important meeting to get to, so let's make this quick," I announce.
Both of their faces are swollen and caked with blood, barely human anymore.
One man's arm dangles uselessly at his side, the shoulder clearly dislocated, twitching against the rope that binds him to the chair.
I place my hand on top of it, and he winces.
"One of you is going to tell me what I need to know, so why don't we cut to the chase? "
Their eyes, which have been locked on me since I entered, turn away. "Neither one, eh?"
"Let's start with a simple question: where are you from?"
Judging by their black hair and darker skin tone, they could be Italian, South American, or Mexican.
I apply more pressure to Crook One's shoulder. His breathing increases, and I push more. He's one tough son of a bitch.
"Alright, let's take them for a cruise." I sigh.
I was hoping this would be quick and I could return to Violet, but it seems these two are more stubborn than I thought.
So I snap my fingers, and four men spring forward to loosen our prisoners' bonds enough to push them forward.
I've interrogated many captives, and in my experience, if they won't even tell you where they're from, they're hard to crack.
But I've yet to see a man who doesn't sing when facing a bunch of hungry sharks.
I've spent a lot of time researching the sharks in this area and have become quite the expert in locating their favorite feeding grounds.
"Not in my car, idiotas," I yell when one of Marco's men is about to put the first prisoner in the Escalade.
Once the two are tied to the back of the car, I order the driver to start slowly. It's a three-minute drive to my private dock. That will give the prisoners some time to think about the next—last—few hours of their lives.
Luciano has ensured that nobody wanders within our boundaries, which is good. Otherwise, we'd have to add another body to the shark party.
Luciano eyes me, "You good, boss?"
"Perfectly fine," I tell him. He knows me well enough.
My seemingly cool facade is just that: a facade.
Inside, I'm burning. If I could, I would open the men's brains and dig through them with my fingers to get the information I want.
Not only because they know more about the plot to have me killed than I do, but because they put Violet in danger.
Not just in danger. They used her as bait, intending her to be collateral damage.
My Violet. They will pay for that with pain and blood.
I always get what I want, and they will give me the information I need.
If I have to shave off their skin with a potato peeler, I will do so.
"Go a bit faster," I order the driver, and our speed increases slightly.
I don't turn around; I've seen it before.
By now, the men will be running. Soon, one will stumble, taking the other down with him.
The road, if it can be called that, is filled with potholes.
The asphalt will rub their skin raw and make them bleed, just the way I want it.
The idea for this came to me when I found my men watching an old western movie one night. In lieu of horses, I figured a car would do just fine. The SUV jerks slightly. There goes the first. Followed by a second jolt. "Slow down."
We basically crawl down to the dock. I keep my impatience in check by trying to fit Edoardo into this scenario.
I'm sure Luciano is right. The Don wants to get rid of me.
More than ever, now that I've killed his nephew, but he can't afford to be caught doing so, which leaves the question of what kind of crew he's hiding behind.
The two men slowing the SUV down are the key to finding that out.
They and the team who attacked us seemed disciplined, but not well-trained, just like the first bunch who came after me.
We stop, and Luciano and I get aboard the yacht that's all ready to go.
The screeching of seagulls grates on my nerves, as does the smell of an ocean so different from the Mediterranean Sea I'm used to.
The odor is an insult to oceans everywhere.
Rotting fish and meat are only part of the foul stench permeating the air.
Somewhere nearby, someone is pouring illegal substances into the Atlantic.
From the way it assaults my nostrils, it's probably the contents of a meth lab.
The sun is lowering, and a colder breeze is coming in. I'm not dressed for a sea trip, aggravating me even more. I pour two Blue Labels for Luciano and me, at least that will warm us from the inside.
"Oh, for crying out loud, that stupid idiot, I told them not in front of the porthole.
" Luciano curses. My gaze follows his line of sight, and I wince as a set of legs comes into view in front of the porthole.
One time, a man thrashed so much that he kicked the glass in.
It cost a fortune to have it replaced, not to mention all the blood that got on my teak flooring.
Luciano is already on his way up to move whoever they have tied there.
Part of the ritual is that our passengers don't get to enjoy the ride inside the boat. They have been tied to the hull, where the drops of blood from their various wounds will flavor the seawater and lure sharks in from miles away. Shortly thereafter, the legs disappear from view.
"How's Violet?" Luciano asks when he returns a few minutes later.
"She handled it okay."
"What are you going to do to keep her safe?"
I've already made my mind up about that. "There's only one way to keep her safe. She needs to have my name."
"You're going to marry her? What is she going to say about that?" He narrows his eyes at me. "You are going to give her a choice, right?"
I run my hand through my hair.
"Marcello?"
"Only if she makes the right one."
Luciano curses.
"They already know my weakness. They won't leave her alone. She's got a target on her back."
He knows I'm right, and he hates this as much as I do.
There's no point in admitting that, danger or not, I probably wouldn't be able to let Violet walk away a second time.
Seeing her after everything I've been through these past few days…
letting her go once was hard enough. I won't do it again.
It would be different if I didn't know that she has feelings for me, too. But she obviously does.
The boat slows. I finish my drink. "Show time."
Luciano grunts and leaves his glass on the table.
Outside, it's just as miserable as I thought it would be.
Out on the open waters, the wind is brutally whipping about.
The sea angrily slaps against the hull and the two men tied to it.
Both of them are white as marble and soaked from head to toe, but the violent shivering of their bodies announces there's still plenty of life left in them.
"Hoist that one up a few inches," I point at the man whose shoulder is not dislocated. "Start chumming."
It doesn't take long for the fins to come into view, racing through the dark water. The man hanging lower sees them first and begins to scream. The head of a blue shark pops up by the man's feet, and he screams and struggles, pulling up his legs.
"Where are you from?" I call, leaning over the railing.
"Fuck you," he yells up, kicking his legs against the nose of another blue shark, who dives back down.
Luciano leans over and slices the man's chest. Blood wells and drops into the water, which is now churning with white foam as more sharks arrive.
A large group of less aggressive sandbar sharks arrives, creating more waves.
Suddenly, a great white dives up from the deep, going for one of the sandbar sharks.
The water turns red, and a feeding frenzy ensues, set to the music of the man's screams as he tries to keep his feet above water.
It doesn't take long before he runs out of steam; his legs begin to shake and drop. The great white does a swim by and his rough skin brushes against the screaming man, pushing him into his companion and causing the other to howl as well.
"Is that Bruce?" Luciano asks, pointing at the great white shark.
"Shine your light," I order one of my men. The beam of a flashlight highlights the shark's missing left eye. "Yep, that's Bruce alright."
"Bruce as in Finding Nemo?" Marco asks.
"Las Vegas. We're from Las Vegas," the second man yells.
Luciano and I exchange a look of confusion. Why would men from Las Vegas come after me? My men searched them, but none of the attackers carried an identifying tattoo, mark, or anything.
"Who do you work for?"