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Nick
To Sophia’s credit, she manages the stairs without flinching. Each step brings her closer to a decision that will set the course of our family, but she does not falter.
I lead her deeper into the basement, to the back where the floor is stained permanently dark, the first streaks dating back to the founding of this family. The Davinci name is built on the blood of its enemies. That blood must continually be spilled to keep us strong, to protect what’s ours.
We tread across the darkening concrete until we come to a cinderblock room with a heavy steel door. Dante and Gio stand on either side of it, their eyes on me.
Sophia clutches my hand.
“Be strong, cara mia.” I jerk my chin at Gio, and he opens the door.
She gasps--perhaps at the smell--but follows me inside. A bare bulb hangs overhead, the light harsh in the small space. A rusted metal table sits to the right, the implements laid out on top covered in blood--some old, some new. We don’t focus too much on cleanliness in this room, mainly because those who end up here don’t make it out alive.
Pasquale Scalingi sits in the center, his arms and legs bound to a chair, his left eye swollen shut. Other than that, a split lip, a busted nose, and a missing pinky, he’s in decent shape. Dante hasn’t gotten to the power equipment yet.
Usually, Pasquale would already be dead. His blood would be mingling with all the rest. This floor soaks up their payment year after year, adding to the debt I’ll owe when my ticket is eventually punched. But that won’t come until I’m old and gray, and it will come on my terms. No one else’s.
Today is different, though. Today, I will not be judge, jury, and executioner. After all, a king can’t make these decisions without consulting his queen.
I steady her, holding her in front of me, safe in my arms, as we face down her grandfather. “Have anything to say, Pasquale?”
He spits a wad of blood onto the floor. “To you?”
“To your granddaughter.”
“I see no granddaughter here.” He looks right at her.
“Speak carefully, old man. She is the one who will decide your fate.”
She tenses even more and turns to look up at me. “Me?”
“You.” I nod. “You’ve suffered the most at the hands of the Scalingi men. You will decide what is to be done with your grandfather.”
She returns her gaze to Pasquale. “I don’t have a grandfather, according to Pasquale. So why should I care what happens to him?”
“Sophia.” Pasquale’s tone changes, softens, turns cajoling. “Please, my dear. Don’t--”
“Tell me about my mother.” The ice in her voice sends a throbbing need straight to my cock.
“What do you mean, Sophia?”
“I mean”—she takes a step forward—“what happened to her?”
“I didn’t hurt her.” He tries to shrug. That’s hard to do when you’re duct-taped to a metal chair.
“But you know what happened, don’t you?”
He looks away with his one good eye.
“Tell me!” Her shout reverberates off the cinderblock walls.
Now he starts to shake, and a new puddle of piss trickles from him.
“She--she wanted to leave. To take you and Marco. But Lorenzo, he wouldn’t let her, so--”
“Did you know?” She takes another step forward, and I follow, keeping her pressed to me, showing her just how much her strength turns me on.
“Did I know what?”
