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The man shakes his head before Domani grabs his slick hair and tugs it back, so the man has no choice but to face me. Fresh blood dribbles down the man’s chin. “Not one of our properties. That’d be too easy. You know them all. They needed a place you wouldn’t think to look.”
“Name it or die.” Death is inevitable. He has to know that. We didn’t get the reputation we have by going easy on the opposition.
The most annoying part is when they sob like they didn’t know what they were getting into, going up against us. As if tears mean a damn thing to me. My men would never be so obviously weak.
That’s one of the many things that sets us apart, putting the Moretti family as the top dogs in the business we inherited from our father. He handed the reins of the syndicate to me before he passed.
The reins came with rules, which we follow to the letter.
Rule One: Never leave the house without a loaded weapon.
Rule Two: Don’t go in without backup.
Rule Three: No girlfriends. We can’t have any distractions that might compromise the organization.
The man whispers his confession that took far too long to come by. “It’s in the basement of the library.”
I rear back. “The library?”
When Domani lets the tuft of hair go, the man hangs his head in defeat. “They said it was the one place no Moretti would ever go.” He winces. “I’m sorry, Bruno!” Then he catches himself in the informal address. “Mister Moretti, sir!”
I should be insulted, and I most definitely am, but that’s all secondary to the fact that we finally have the information we need.
His sobs are grating. “Please! Let me go. I’ve told you everything I know.”
While Domani could get the same results if he stopped after he gathered the necessary information, both of us know he wouldn’t be Dom the Dentist if he didn’t finish the job.
Dom will not be finished until each tooth in the man’s head has been extracted, placed in a black velvet pouch, and dropped on the doorstep of the opposing boss’ doorstep. In our forty years of life, Dom has never veered from his tried and true methods.
My twin doesn’t say much, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate the theatrical side of the job. Though we’re identical down to the thick black hair that all the men in our family share, Dom and I are quite different in our personalities. I was born to be the head of the family, and Dom was built to make sure the pathway is clear for me so I can stay on top of things and keep us all afloat.
Antonio is the third in line, and he handles the tech stuff I have no interest in learning.
Giovanni is the baby. He enjoys making a mess for the Torros to clean up.
I put out my cigar on the man’s arm before nodding to my twin. “I’ll be back with our money.”
Domani grunts, which I know means that he wants me to bring along Giovanni.
I wave him off. “I know, I know. Rule Number Two. I’ll grab Gio to come with me.”
Since taking over for my father, I don’t get to run missions on my own anymore. I have to do smart things now, like be careful and set an example of power, rather than take the hits that fuel my well-earned rage.
With a quick text to the youngest of our family, and certainly the most reckless, I exit from the warehouse, call my driver, and make my way to the perfect hiding spot for a giant pile of money.
A fucking library.
If Domani is more comfortable not talking, then Giovanni is his opposite. Our youngest brother never stops yammering, even when I’ve made it clear I have little to say.
Gio smacks his hands together beside me in the backseat of my car while my trusted guard and driver takes us to the south side of town. “I’ve got this. I’vesogot this. Six of my guys rolling behind us? You know it’s gonna be lit.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the car following close behind that contains his crew.
When Giovanni talks like a teenager, I am reminded of our age gap. Sure, I’m forty, but I never spoke so ridiculously when I was Giovanni’s ripe age of thirty.
Forty.
The thought echoes through my brain like a gong of doom. Though, to be fair, to make it to forty in our line of work is a feat to celebrate.
Giovanni’s voice lowers so Carlo, my driver, doesn’t overhear. “You don’t trust me to handle this. You wouldn’t come along for the ride if you did.”
