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Yet.
However, there was nothing worse than a rat.
“Please. I’ll do what you want. I don’t want to die.”
Jesus Christ. I hated when they resorted to acting like whimpering children. He knew exactly what I expected out of my employees.
In my line of work, a traitor usually meant an interruption in business, often leading to a tragic end. Unfortunately, for Dylan, that meant an end to his employment with my organization, his treachery unforgiveable. His punishment had yet to be determined.
While I’d attempted to be fair in my determinations, my brutal nature refused to allow his lies to be ignored, and a message needed to be sent to others in my employ.
Don’t fuck with me.
I rubbed my jaw as I glared at him, taking my time to consider how best to handle his unseemly infraction.
Dylan was shaking, his right foot tapping against the tiled floor of the kitchen, which was almost as annoying as his heavy breathing. He was a large man, someone who’d spent far too much time feasting on his own cooking. He continued to blubber, which was a typical reaction when found in my crosshairs. What I wouldn’t give for a man to act like a man, admitting their sins and accepting defeat.
“What do you want to do with him, boss?” Brando asked, his gruff voice indicating he was itching to take the lead, removing one or several of Dylan’s digits. It was late, almost closing time, Tuesday nights the least popular. I hadn’t intended on handling the difficult situation inside Mama Lucia’s restaurant, but given his treacherous act, I couldn’t allow his egregious behavior to continue even another night.
My men had dragged him here in the trunk of a vehicle, waiting until most customers had left, including the men I’d been meeting with, contracts signed for another commercial real estate development. Thankfully, only a few employees were left on the other side, clearing dishes and tablecloths, preparing to leave. They all knew to keep their mouths shut.
I glanced at my Capo then back to the rat. “Dylan. I need to know the names of everyone that you felt compelled to provide detailed, sensitive information to, including the addresses of my soldiers.”
He looked away, which was another sin for someone attempting to plead their cause. I moved toward him, my enforcers backing away. He’d been brought here solely because I’d been detained by the meetings, my men spending time working him over beforehand. I usually abhorred this part of my job, but war was brewing. Thankfully, it wasn’t often I was required to resort to physical confrontation, those in my employ realizing it was in their best interest to remain loyal.
Brando dragged him away from the stainless-steel table, still holding the knife. When he pressed the tip against Dylan’s jugular, I shook my head.
“Looks like you might keep your hand,” my Capo hissed.
Dylan continued shaking, his eyes open wide with horror. “Please. Please. Please.”
After backhanding him, I flexed then fisted my hand, furious with myself for not tightening security the minute I’d detected a breach. Dylan had been on my radar for at least two weeks, my informants providing details of his various… infractions. I’d been busy accumulating additional business but that shouldn’t have been allowed to interfere.
I’d gotten greedy. That couldn’t happen again.
He balked, his mouth twisting and his eyes dancing with a wildfire of fear and confusion.
I smashed my fist against his cheek, shaking off the ache as I glared at him, drops of his blood splattering against my jacket. He tumbled backwards, slamming against the wall. He was nothing in my world, yet I’d accepted his employ, pretending I could be anything other than what I’d become, a ruler of the city. “Dylan. I have no more patience this evening. This is your last chance to tell me what the fuck is going on.”
The four seconds I allowed to go by were four seconds too long. This wasn’t the time to go soft, not for anyone.
“They made me, Mr. Vincheti,” he finally spit out, choking as he gasped for air.
“Who made you spill your guts, Dylan?” I needed him to say it, confirming what I already knew.
When he lunged toward me, my enforcers grabbed him by the arms, shoving him against the back wall. He hissed, dragging his tongue across his bloodied mouth.
I was losing patience.
“Tsk. Tsk, Dylan. That wasn’t very nice of you. I’m going to ask you one last time,” I said, lifting my arm and pointing my index finger toward his face. He broke into hives, his face immediately blotchy.
Tick. Tock.
After ten full seconds, I nodded to Brando, who shoved the knife directly under Dylan’s chin.
“No!” he screamed. “Filip Adamos. He threatened my family. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, Mr. Vincheti. I’m so sorry.” Dylan’s chest heaved and he dropped his head, openly sobbing.
Casimine’s son.
