Prologue
Dante
It’s wellpast midnight when I enter the keypad code for the gate that secures the main entrance to the Deep Cellar.
The partially underground structure serves as a climate-controlled warehouse for the Bellanti family’s personal wine collection, as well as highly select priceless vintages. This place is so off the grid, only a handful of people know of its existence—and even fewer know what else goes on down here.
The gate automatically clicks shut behind me, and I walk through the front storage room to the far back where the tunneled cellar goes deep underground. My footfalls echo on the cement floor as I traverse the short tunnel toward the dull red glow of a cigarette at the end.
It’s been a while since the soundproof hidden room has served a more devious purpose than carefully storing expensive wine, but judging by the look on Donovan’s face as I approach, Armani is making up for lost time.
“Bregman’s inside?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
The man responsible for my father’s death is in there. I can feel it.
Though technically, George Bregman isn’t the responsible party. He’s just the man who sabotaged my father’s vehicle—on someone else’s orders. There’s more to the story, and we need to get it out of Bregman one way or another.
Hence the need for this…meeting.
Donovan drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot, then grabs the handle of the heavy, arched wood door that muffles the sounds of what’s going on inside the cellar.
“Yes, boss. Armani’s…taking care of him,” he says. “You want me to lend a hand, you just say the word.”
“Will do.”
I take a deep breath. Then I nod for him to open the door.
Donovan puts on a good show when it comes to playing the family’s personal driver, but of course he’s much more than that. He’s loyal, discreet, and he can clean up any mess—any mess at all. It’s the reason I hired him. And he hasn’t let us down yet.
I make my way down another passageway, past long racks of bottles, all retrofitted to be shock absorbing and fireproof. They also keep the cellar soundproof. Which is good, because Armani is apparently doing something to Bregman that’s making him scream, low and guttural. I steel myself for what I’m about to see as I round the corner.
It’s not as bad as it could be. Bregman is tied to a sturdy wooden chair. Head strapped to the tall back. Arms and legs bound. Nothing I haven’t seen before.
Armani stands behind him with one of Bregman’s hands splayed behind his back, the wrist twisted unnaturally so most of the fingers point up. Blood has dripped onto the floor from the fingernail Bregman already lost. By the looks of it, Armani is about to remove another.
“F-f-fucking Jesus fuck!” Bregman is stuttering, sweat pouring down his face.
“Not to worry,” Armani soothes, the picture of calm. “Nails grow back. Unlike balls. All things considered, I’d say it could be a lot worse. Don’t you think?”
“Please, fuck, stop. Please, stop!”
Armani has the pliers clamped firmly around the nail he intends to remove, but before he can start pulling, I interrupt with, “Has he said anything yet?”
My brother stops what he’s doing to look up at me. “Nothing besides ‘please stop’ and ‘I don’t know anything.’ He’s like a goddamn broken record.”
His face has a look of pure disgust, but it’s not because he detests his prisoner—it’s because he hates this whole process. Armani takes no pleasure in playing torturer, despite acting every inch the hard-ass. It’s all for show. An effort to rattle Bregman further, get him talking as quickly as possible. I know from past experience that Armani will barely eat for the next few days, that he’ll brood in his office, that when it comes to his job, he’ll continue doing everything in his power to avoid future interrogation sessions like this one. Cruelty doesn’t come naturally to him; it never has. He’s no Enzo Bellanti, and I’m glad for it.
A hum rumbles in my throat. “Maybe we should give Donovan a turn, after all. He’s chomping at the bit out there.”
“Oh yeah?” Armani says, playing along.
I nod. “The man brought his own tools. Not that we don’t have plenty here.”
Now there’s a man who derives a certain relish from this kind of thing. In which case, fuck fingernails; Donovan likes playing with fire. Actual fire.
Turning to Bregman, I ask, “Do you know what a knee splitter is? You like walking, right?”
He begins to sob uncontrollably. Walking closer, I circle the chair he’s tied to and get a good look at his battered face. His left eye is swollen shut, both lips split. I lean down, so I can look him in his one good eye.
