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“He was the oldest,” Dulles said, eyes burning bright. “He could have protected us.”
Even if Primo was the oldest, he’d been a victim of his father too. It was illogical to expect that Primo could have protected them back then. Which was probably why, as an adult, Primo pulled his brothers in close, creating a united front with them. He was trying to make up for all the times he couldn’t protect them when they’d all been kids living in the house with a violent tyrant.
“But you’ve worked with him for years,” I insisted, shaking my head.
“We worked against him for years,” Dawson said, happy to share how they’d outsmarted a man who never looked at his brothers as perpetrators because he had such a firm belief in loyalty that he wouldn’t have been able to fathom brothers who’d betrayed him. Especially when he clearly tried to do right by all his people.
“You’ve been stealing from him?” I asked, not quite willing to accept more than that.
“Stealing. Doing some carefully placed hits…” Dulles said.
“Can’t forget getting Vissi chased out of the States,” Dawson added.
“Did you… were you the ones who shot Terzo?”
“That fucking asshole,” Dulles said, shaking his head.
Oh, God.
Poor Primo.
That was the dominant thought right then.
Not only did he have a brother murdered, but he never had the love and respect from these two that he’d always thought he had.
And, it seemed, he might very well lose me.
And his own life.
His grief leading up to that would be overwhelming.
“Have you been working alone?” I asked, knowing I needed to keep them talking even if each word they said made my stomach slosh around even more.
“At first. Then we found some friends,” Dulles said, smirking. “They should be rounding up the rest of Primo’s men soon.”
The bile just kept rising up in my throat, making me sure I was going to be sick all over myself.
“I get that you want to hurt Primo. I mean… he’s an asshole,” I said, trying to endear myself to them even if I hated talking trash about Primo to these real assholes. “But why do you want to hurt me?” I asked.
“Please. You’ve been fucking him now. You’re tainted too.”
Tainted.
That was just lovely.
“Even if you think that, have you really thought this through?” I asked. “Have your friends? Because I’m not just a Esposito, remember?” I said, watching as they shared a look. And there was a hint of worry there.
But then Dulles declared. “Please, they wouldn’t save you from Primo. They won’t save you from us.”
“The difference is I chose to be with Primo to end the war,” I clarified. “It hadn’t been a good choice, but it had been a choice. One that my Family would respect so long as no harm came to me. This? This is not the same. You hurt me, and they will come for you. I don’t know if you’ve met this guy named Brio who is part of my Family,” I went on, catching a look of real fear in their eyes. “But I heard he once kind of… you know… boiled a man to death. And that was over some kind of money thing, not something personal.”
I could see their glee start to falter at that. Because anyone who knew anything about the New York City mafia knew that Brio was a warped psychopath who got literal joy out of finding new and interesting ways to make people suffer and die.
And he was part of my Family.
Even if I didn’t personally have much of a connection to him, Brio would go to bat for me out of respect for my brothers.
Dulles gave Dawson a look, and then Dawson was reaching for his phone and heading off toward the far corner of the basement.
Good.
That was good.
I was biding my time.
Time for Primo to know what was going on.
And, hopefully, call in my Family as well, to show up in force and put an end to this once and for all.
I just needed to keep them distracted and second-guessing themselves.
Across the room, Dawson was having an animated, but hushed discussion, occasionally shooting his glance my way, which I noticed in my periphery since I was trying to keep an eye on Dulles who was pacing and raking his hands through his hair.
Losing control.
And that was not something that was going to work in my favor.
I needed them off balance, not out of their minds.
They were much more likely to panic and kill me if they were losing their grip.
“Dulles,” I called, making him jerk and look over at me. “Was it all fake?” I asked, trying to make my voice small and vulnerable.
“Was all what fake?”
“I mean, we spent a lot of time together when I first… came to live with Primo. We went out. We shopped and got food together. I cooked for you. We shared stories. It felt really real to me,” I told him, and there was a bit of genuine sadness in my voice then, because it had felt real. They had been the only decent part of my life those first few days of fear and uncertainty. “Was it all fake?”
