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“Really?” I indicate to Franco, and he picks up a metal bat, hitting him hard across his kneecaps, his screams reverberating around the warehouse.
“What do you want to know?” He says groaning in pain.
“Tell me what you told my consigliere about Anton Romanov.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Wham!
This time, I punch him hard across the face nearly taking his head off. “Tell me, and don’t make me fucking ask nicely.” That small action causes a ripple of pain across my body, and I retreat to the chair opposite to get my breath back.
“I’ve already fucking told your guy, Paolo’s daughter met Anton in college, and they ran off together to Chicago. When Paolo found out they were going to be married he stormed the church. Paolo killed Anton and wiped out as many of the witnesses as he could but some of us still live to tell the tale.”
“For now,” I growl.
“Artem mourned the loss of his two sons that day, Anton and Andriy, swearing one day The Bratva would rise up against the Italians and take revenge.”
“Where do you come in?”
“I was instructed to kill on sight.”
“Didn’t do a great job, did you?”
“Just one more bullet and your wife would have been burying another love. Quite the black widow, isn’t she?” He says smirking.
“Rocco!” Franco stops me as I pick up the meat cleaver on the table.
“That was the beginning of the end of our thing.”
—Anthony Casso
IFEET LIKE MY BLOOD HAD BEEN REPLACED BY FUMES OF HOT LAVA PULSATING INSIDE OF ME.
Every time I try to contemplate her betrayal, a feeling of anguish burns in my throat.
“Why did you want to come here?” Franco says taking me to the other side of the room. “I knew you should have stayed away.”
“I need answers.”
“You’re not going to find them on that cleaver. Rocco, you need to listen to me, your body is still in a state of trauma from the shooting. Not to mention all this Sophia business. Go home, I will finish this off.”
“I don’t have a home anymore, besides I can finish him off myself.”
“No, you fucking will not, Rocco,” he says as his voice raises in anger.
“Has he said who sent him?”
“It has to be Artem, who else is left? Artem is in his eighties, it’s either now or never if he wants revenge.”
“What do you want to do next?”
“I want to see Sophia.”
“What?”
“It’s the only way I’m going to get any answers,” I say, walking back to Ivan.
“Are you going to kill me or not?” he says in a bored tone.
