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“Whoever has Gia is using her for leverage,” Pete added. “She’s alive. Stop acting like a fucking girl and clean up the mess you’ve made.”
He was talking about Carlo’s body.
We were at the same construction site we’d used plenty of times to dump our victims. For a second, I thought of the look in Gia’s eyes, when I’d turned and saw her gasping for air, as the men I had killed alongside my brothers dropped into the ground. She was frightened but turned on. My girl never batted an eyelash at the things I did.
I could still feel Gia’s lips when they wrapped around my cock that night. Knew just how her curls felt between my fingers when she took every inch of me in her mouth. Violence brought out a different side of me. Because of it, Gia had become my addiction. My salvation. She was the only person who could cure me. I had to find her.
Doing as Pete asked, I walked over to Carlo’s body and gave him a good kick in the ribs to roll him over, and into the grave I made him dig before I beat him to death. I had his blood on my shoes and clothes, some of it on my face. If I could have killed him again, I would have. But it wouldn’t bring Gia back to me.
One day at a time, I was becoming more like my brothers. I cared about nothing other than Gia. Not even myself. Hope was a wasted emotion, or at least I’d thought so before Gia had disappeared. Every day, I held out hope I would see her again. I hated not knowing if she was okay. The longest Gia and I had ever been apart in fifteen years was after her mother’s death. I thought that was hell. But not knowing if Gia was okay was pure torture.
“Fig is next,” I told Marco.
He nodded.
My brothers had agreed to help me torture every last one of them. Michael Figone, who everyone knew as Fig, was one of the men on the list that was texted to Sonny the night of the fake fire at Vitale’s. With Carlo dead, I had four more left in my pursuit of revenge—Sonny included.
Chapter Four
Gia
My captor held my chin back with his hand, forcing me to look at the camera. I tried to bite his fingers, but he kept me pinned to the chair with his strong hands. No matter how much I thrashed and pleaded for him to let me go, he laughed. It was more of a wicked cackle that made my blood run cold. He enjoyed tormenting me. This was fun for him.
“Get your hands off me, you sick fuck. Angelo will slit your fucking throat for this. Mark my words, you pig.”
As his hands roamed down my shoulders and to my breasts, he lifted me up from the chair. He pushed it aside with his dress shoe, my back slamming into his chest with violent force. Using my left foot, I tried to push off from his leg to knee him in the balls and missed.
“You’re only making this harder on yourself,” he growled against the shell of my ear. “Keep fighting me. It’s a turn-on.”
Perfect. Another sicko who was into rough sex and torture. No one had ever had me but Angelo, and if I could help it, things would stay that way. This motherfucker wasn’t going to bend me over and stake his claim. Nope, not without losing his manhood.
He cupped my breast in his hand and pinched my nipple so hard I thought he’d ripped it off. My eyes shut from the pain that shot down my arm, the sensation so intense I bit my lip to keep from screaming.
“I can see why everyone wants you,” he hissed close to my ear. “It’s time to get you ready. Stop fighting, or it will only get worse for you. Some men like the challenge. The men who are interested in you will pay more for it.”
I turned my body from side to side, attempting to land an elbow. He was too fast, my body too weak to properly fight him.
“No,” I screamed. “I’m no one’s property.”
He laughed so loud it pierced my eardrum. “Think again, princess. You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
“No, why don’t you tell me?”
He shook his head, still amused by the entire situation. “You’re worth more than gold. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Like what? What are you talking about?”
He held his other hand over my mouth to silence me. “That’s enough out of you.”
Attempting to peel his fingers from my lips, I grabbed hold of his ring. It was thick, made of solid gold, and had diamond chips surrounding what looked like a bull. My blood ran cold at the thought of the Sicilian Bull—what was once used as a torture device in Ancient Greece.
I’d talked Angelo into taking a mythology class with me for our undergraduate degrees. My skin had dotted with tiny bumps when the professor explained to the class that criminals were trapped inside a hollow bull made from bronze, a fire lit underneath until they’d burned to death. They said the people’s screams sounded like those of a bull.
I was sick from the thought of killing someone in such a way. Not Angelo. He was always fascinated by new ways to torture his victims. It was apparent my captor shared Angelo’s sickness.
Would he try the same sick shit with me?
“Please,” I begged, my voice coming out more than desperate. “Don’t hurt me. I can give you money. I have plenty of it.”
