Page 108 of Brutal Vows

50

LUCA

Franco fucking Fiore. In-fucking-credible.

Proper dead by our hands, hunted by the Chertnikov Bratva.

It’s an unexpected windfall of knowledge, but how small is this world really? I bet if we dig deep enough, Randazzo’s name will float up like a bloated corpse in that poisoned lake.

This is information I can use to bait them with, lure them out and turn the tables. Russians and Italians are coming together on the game board of organized crime. I bet it all started with trafficking, drugs, and all the sordid shit we’ve been trying to extricate ourselves from. No wonder it’s so hard to get fucking clean. It’s like a pervasive addiction: once you’re in crime, you’re always in crime.

I’m going to have to play along while trying to figure out why they are looking for Franco Fiore. That fucker pissed off more than one powerful crime syndicate. I can’t waste time; I need to get us the fuck out of here as soon as possible.

“Tell me about your Italian,” I say, shifting in my seat. I clutch the armrest. Gauge the chair’s weight. I only need one hand free to make a move. “I have connections in America and Italy. Sicily. Family, you know? Italians love big families. Maybe I know him.”

My Russian smirks. “Porn star fucker know-it-all. You Mafia?”

“No. Do I look like Mafia?”

Thank fuck I stopped Stephano getting more tattoos. Matteo and Dominic are practically walking advertisements for our trade without their shirts on. Not that you’ll ever see Dominic with his shirt off anywhere but in the privacy of his bedroom, or the pool in a private indoor space. For one, the man has an Uzi handgun right out of the “Terminator” movie tattooed on his side. Probably a fantasy of pulling a real Uzi out and shooting the Don to smithereens while screaming hasta la vista, baby. The thought makes me smile, which is a mistake.

The slap comes from the side, heavy against my cheekbone, and my head whips. Oof.

I shake my head to clear it.

The man leans over me, eye to eye, his hand tightening around my throat. “You fucking Mafia?” he hisses, spitting in my face.

Jesus. Hold it in, captain. I have so much to share if you just pace yourself.

With my blood flow and air cut off, heat builds in my face. My eyes feel like they’re swelling, ready to explode out of my sockets. Fuck. What a way to die.

He lets go.

I drag in several haggard breaths, ignoring the pounding pain where he squeezed my throat.

He straightens, still standing close, towering over me.

“Not much use to you if I’m dead,” I croak out, throat parched as I look up at him, defiant.

He grunts, walks away, and tosses the knife onto the table.

This situation mirrors many of the things Il Consiglio resorts to when necessary. It sucks being on the receiving end of this shit.

“Who you looking for?” I ask. “What’s his name?”

He reaches for the poker. This is going to get dark.

“You Mafia?” he asks again as he walks up to me, the red tip glowing. “The tattoo, in your blood. Is Mafia thing to say?”

He’s either going to stab me with it or just brand me. I’m not looking forward to either. I prepare my jaw. I will not freak Milana out by screaming like a pig being slaughtered.

“No. Why do you think I’m Mafia? Told you I’m into porn.”

“Yes-yes. Why Italian American in car with Russian Bratva princess? Here is Masha Baykova, ‘The Witch.’ Your girlfriend is Russian. They friends?”

Fuck. At least they haven’t figured out who Milana is yet. “I don’t know.”

He steps to the side, aligning himself at an angle with my body. “I think you do.”