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“Good. He can take you to the hospital.”
“What? No!”
Malcolm tries to run, but I grab him, slinging him to the ground. Some of the patrons glance over at us, but no one intervenes. Before he can scramble to his feet, I grip his necktie and begin dragging him across the floor to the private room my father had made just for this purpose. It’s soundproof, windowless, and easy to clean. Coughing, Malcolm gets to his feet, panic in his eyes.
“A hundred thousand dollars, Malcolm. You think dear old dad is good for it?” Father asks. “I don’t think so. You see, your father made some bad investments. He’s broke. The only assets he has is the small amount of equity in the estate.”
Malcolm shakes his head frantically. “That’s not true.”
Only it is. Gilligan Arnold doesn’t have the means to pay his son’s debt. He’s been scrambling to make his own ends meet. He’s in serious debt with no means to pay it. Pretty soon, he’ll share the same fate as Malcolm.
“Take his thumbs.”
“No!”
Duncan casually walks over to the table in the corner and retrieves a bolt cutter. He moves toward Malcolm, but my father stops him. “Salvatore will do it.”
I take the bolt cutters and advance on Malcolm. He isn’t tied down or restrained, so I know he’s going to fight. I would fight if I were him, even if I knew this was inevitable. He takes a swing, and I clock him in the head with the bolt cutters. Dropping to his knees, he lets out a defeated cry. I use that opportunity to grab his right wrist, quickly snipping off his thumb.
There’s no fight left in him after that. He sobs and cries, clutching his hand to his chest. I don’t see the point in taking his other thumb. He’s learned his lesson. Losing a digit will do that for you.
“The other one,” Father says.
“He’s learned his lesson.”
“Son, when you are the head of this family, you can decide on leniency. Now, take his other thumb.”
That day is coming. I’ve been training for it my whole life. I grab his hand and cut his other thumb off.
“Ben fatto, son. Well done.”
7
Milana
Ilick my lips, my heart pounding in my chest. My eyes can’t read the words fast enough. Only a few chapters in, and I’m hooked, desperate to know what’s going to happen with Caspian and Tatum. It’s going to be explosive.
“Signora,you have a visitor.”
I consider ignoring him, but he’ll just keep standing there until I respond. Reluctantly, I put my copy ofMischief Nightby Delaney Foster on the table and get off the couch. I’m not really dressed for visitors, considering I’m wearing yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt that keeps falling off my shoulder. Maybe whoever it is will see how comfy I am and decide they’re intruding on my relaxation time.
“Mr. Moretti, ma’am.”
This isn’t Mr. Moretti. Stefano Moretti is who I think of when I hear Mr. Moretti. This is Sal. Salvatore.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Would it matter if you were?”
He grins, and I instantly regret not putting some decent clothes on. “Not at all.”
I cross my arms over my chest, the movement making the T-shirt slip farther down my shoulder. Heat fills his gaze, and I uncross my arms, standing up straight to see what kind of reaction I can get out of him.
“What can I do for you?”
That’s a loaded question. I’d really like to know whathecan do forme. Thinking of him this way should feel wrong. I used to think of him as my brother. Now, the things I’m thinking are things you should never in a million years do with your brother.
“My father liked the idea of adding a menu to the casino. He wants you to come up with a proposal.”
