Page 12 of Perfect Vengeance

His lips twitched. In addition to having a set of brass ovaries, which he grudgingly admired, she certainly had curves. While they’d been jammed in the closet like sardines, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from running down a less than professional inventory of her assets.

From what he’d seen—and felt—he’d guess she was in her early thirties, five-five, a hundred and twenty pounds. At first, he’d thought she was skinny. Until he’d gotten a good feel of her long, firm muscles beneath that sexy suit. She had to work out regularly to achieve a body like that, although the full breast he’d cupped in his hand was definitely au naturel. He knew because his ex-girlfriend’s weren’t.

When all that thick brown hair had sprung from beneath her hood he’d nearly choked. And the way she smelled…no perfume, just a sweet, womanly scent. Like vanilla and sugar. But her voice…nothing sweet about that. Hard, biting, snapping at him with all the pent-up venom of a pit viper. Yet at the same time, it was soft and husky.

While he didn’t give a rat’s ass that she was stealing from the Falzones, she was nothing more than a thief. On top of which, she and her cohorts had not only obstructed a major investigation but assaulted a federal agent. After he threw the Falzones in jail, he’d put enough money on the streets to turn something up on her, then he’d charge her for violating every federal statute in the book.

The cell phone on his belt vibrated. “Meat, what’ve you got?” His informant rattled off the itineraries Jack had been waiting on. “Outstanding.”

He might not have the resources to get into Psycho’s, but Rocco’s place he could manage. And Rocco would be out of town in Atlantic City. Tonight.

Chapter Four

“Aw, shit.” Tino jumped back. The bookie’s severed ear smacked onto the concrete floor, spattering blood on his brand new Ferragamos. “Shit, shit, shit.”

The bookie howled in pain. Not even the industrial fans the size of small Chevys rumbling overhead were enough to keep the man’s annoying screams from echoing off the bloodstained walls.

Tino clenched the roughened wood handle of the butcher knife tighter and raised his arm to take another swipe. “Fuck it.” He flung the knife to the floor. The ten-inch blade clattered before skidding to a stop near a metal grating. “Will you look at this mess?” He pointed to his shoes. “I should hack the rest of the guy’s head off for that alone.”

“Serves you right for wearing designer shoes.” Rocco crossed his arms, stretching the black sweater covering his beach ball–sized belly. “It’s Monday, so what’s with the Sunday best?”

Rather than flipping the older man the bird, Tino flicked the tips of his fingers beneath his chin, a silent FU. “I gotta take Ma out for dinner tonight. She likes it when I show up dressed nice, like I’m going to church.”

“You go to church?” Rocco planted his hands on his belly and roared with laughter. “Hate to break it to you,” he said between laughs and the bookie’s moans, “you’re going straight to hell no matter what you’re wearin’.”

“As long as I look good when I go”—he indicated with both hands to his Armani suit— “I don’t give a damn where I end up.”

“You and your freakin’ wardrobe.” Rocco snorted. “You spend more money on clothes than my four sisters put together.”

“You should talk.” He sneered as he made a show of checking the other man out. “You look like you buy your clothes at Dollar Tree.”

A loud moan came from the man tied to the chair. The bookie’s sobbing was beginning to grate on Tino’s nerves almost as bad as Rocco’s constant nagging. He glared at the bookie and held his arms wide. “Would you shut the fuck up? We’re trying to have a conversation here.” He began checking the sleeves of his suit for blood.

“What did you expect?” Rocco laughed. “You just chopped the guy’s ear off.”

As Rocco picked up the knife Tino had thrown away, Tino looked around the abandoned meat-packing warehouse, double-checking to make sure they didn’t have any unexpected guests.

Aside from the rusty metal chair the bookie was tied to, the only other things in the fifty-square-yard room were a few stainless steel carts on wheels and dried blood-encrusted hooks attached to conveyer belts hanging from the ceiling.

He glanced at the ear lying in the puddle of blood at his feet, then at the skinny man writhing and twisting in the chair. Tears poured down the man’s face. Blood dripped from the ragged flesh still attached to his head where his ear used to be. The man’s black T-shirt darkened steadily as it absorbed more blood.

“Cut him loose,” Tino said, then yanked a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and leaned down to wipe his shoes.

Rocco set the butcher knife on one of the carts and dug into the front pocket of his slacks to pull out a small folding knife. As soon as the bookie’s hands were free, the man held both of them to his head. Blood oozed between his fingers as he whimpered, rocking back and forth on the chair.

“You ruined my shoes, asshole.” Tino finished wiping his Ferragamos, then threw the bloody handkerchief in the man’s face. “Now beat it.”

The bookie stared at him, his eyes going wide. “I-I can leave?”

“What’s the matter?” Tino got in his face. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Rocco chuckled.

“I’ll get the money to you next week.” More candy-assed tears. “I swear it.”

“I know you will.” He pointed to the door. “Now get outta here before I change my mind and cut your dick off.”

With one hand jammed against the gaping wound on the side of his head, the bookie bolted from the chair and stumbled across the warehouse floor, his footfalls echoing with every step. The door slammed shut behind him.