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At the back of the building were some offices. I followed Jackson inside the nearest one, where five men were on their knees, hands cable-tied behind their backs. Outfit members.
Jackson’s men surrounded the room, backs to the walls, weapons in hand.
The place smelled like blood, body odor, and cigarette smoke, and the harsh fluorescent lights were giving me a damn headache already.
“We didn’t need five of them.” I leaned against one of the desks that had been shifted to the side of the room.
“Better too many than not enough.” Jackson removed his rifle, placing it on the desk beside me before he pulled a hunting knife from his ankle holster. He flipped the oversized dick replacement in his hand, a smile playing over his face. “Though, personally, I prefer not enough.”
“Who’s in charge?” I asked.
None of them responded, and though I knew they were just ground soldiers, someone was always in charge. That person reported to someone else, who reported to someone else. And eventually, Donato.
This was how you crippled a mafia. Here, on the ground, with soldiers and product. What we did at Baccio Rosa, that was just a taste, the start. We’d since hit warehouses, bars, nightclubs, even home addresses. We were slowly decimating them. Bit by bit. Piece by piece.
I pulled my gun from the holster and placed it in my lap. “Who is in charge?” I repeated.
One of the men spat on the ground. “Your mother is a whore,” he grunted. Imaginative. “If you want war, then Sergio Donato will give it to you.”
I didn’t miss the tinge of admiration that accompanied Sergio’s name. So loyal. So stupid. “So you, then. You’re in charge.”
He glared defiantly, and I laughed. He was a drab-looking individual in a dirty vest and jeans. Several gold necklaces were nestled amongst his chest hair, matching the one gold tooth glinting beneath the dim lights. A mid-level soldier at best.
I moved toward him and dragged the barrel of my gun down his cheek. “You must not know who I am.”
“Giovanni Guerra.” Smarter than he looked. “We don’t fear Famiglia, pretty-boy pussies.” He spat, the glob landing on my shoe.
A rare lack of control gripped me, and I drove my fist into the man’s face hard enough that I felt his eye socket crunch. He collapsed forward on a groan.
Jackson grinned, bouncing on his feet. “You know you want to bleed him like a pig,” he said, offering me his obnoxiously large knife.
Straightening the sleeve of my suit jacket, I stepped back. I didn’t get my hands dirty. Everyone thought I was calm and collected, but I was just as bloodthirsty as Jackson and Nero. The difference between us was that I rarely committed violence based on an emotional reaction, only when I felt nothing. Some might say that made me worse, but I knew my worst self. Leashed it, controlled it.
I pointed to the guy I’d just punched, and he glared at me, his eye already swelling. “Leave him alive.”
The smile that covered Jackson’s face was a manic, depraved thing. This was what he lived for—fear and death, blood and war.
Jackson embraced the worst parts of himself at all times, and that was what made him a great enforcer. Every boss needed a guy like him who was willing to do the gruesome jobs without question.
Nero and I may have carried a certain reputation, but a good chunk of that was carved out with Jackson’s knife. He was the rabid dog in our organization, unencumbered by the chains of leadership or diplomacy. He killed because he was told to, but he enjoyed it.
He stalked toward a guy at the end of the line, who struggled fruitlessly against his restraints as though he could actually get out of this situation. He begged; he promised information I knew he didn’t have to give. None of it would save him because his purpose was to be a gruesome message—to die. Nothing could save him from that fate.
I folded my arms over my chest as Jackson gripped a handful of the man’s greasy hair, then sliced the knife over his neck. His throat opened like a tap, and crimson poured down the gray material of his shirt like a disease reaching for a new host. The choking of his last breaths was interrupted only by the sound of blood spattering over linoleum and the whimper of the next man in line.
The body hadn’t even slumped to the ground before Jackson moved on to the next and the next. With each one, their begging grew more desperate, their fear a cloying scent that tainted the already less than ideal air in here. The last guy pissed himself, which just finished everything off nicely. And then there was one. Jackson sheathed his knife and cracked his neck to the side.
