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“I hate you,” I say and the word feel like throw-up heaving from my throat. Acid, bile, hate. “I despise youso much. And you are so much worse than I ever imagined, if you’re stupid enough to come here and begme, of all people, for mercy.” I glare at him with absolute blackness in my heart. “I have no mercy for you. There is no mercy in this world for you, Christopher. I want you to suffer all the pain and misery you made me suffer. I want to watch Evander cut you into little pieces.” I lean forward, staring into his terrified, sweating face. “Ihateyou so much, and once you’re gone, I’ll never think about you again. The world will forget you. I’m a Kazan now. You’re nothing.”
“Camille, please,” he says, moaning with terror.
I turn my back. “Alonzo, I think my husband will want this man alive.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Kazan.”
“Wait, Camille, we can talk, please!” There’s a curse and a sharp grunt mixed with the sound of something solid smacking into something less solid. I turn to see Christopher lying on the pavement, blood rolling from a head wound.
“Is he dead?” I ask.
Alonzo shrugs. “Probably not. Concussed real bad though.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and makes a call.
The world recedes as I stand staring down at my abuser’s bleeding face. He lies on the ground, eyes staring at nothing. He’s not dead—I watch his chest rise and fall—but he looks so weak, so small, crumpled up like that at my feet.
All this time, I was so afraid of this man. This lump of meat. This worthless nothing.
Christopher was my torturer. He was the monster that came for me in the night.
Now, he’s nothing.
Tears wrench themselves from my chest as I sob quietly into my hands.
Chapter58
Evander
Two men sit across from me in my office. Ciro Nasato and Lucca Verga both wear crisp, decent black suits, their hair slicked back, rings on their fingers, watches gleaming as if recently cleaned. Ciro’s the older of the two, heavier than Lucca, with dark bags under his eyes. Lucca’s in his early twenties, athletic and muscular, a good-looking young man, but an ugly red wound that’ll turn into a nasty scar through his cheek and ear tells me a lot about what these men have gone through in the last few weeks.
“How can I trust that you two speak for the Pavone Famiglia?” I ask, head tilted to the side. I spin a glass of whiskey on a coaster on my desk. I don’t want to admit that I’m enjoying this, but watching two powerful Italian mobsters bow and scrape and beg does bring me some pleasure.
“There’s nobody left to disagree, Lord Kazan,” Ciro says, bowing his head respectfully. “It’s only me and Lucca now.”
“Which of you do I call Don?” I ask, trying not to smile.
“Ciro is my underboss,” Lucca says, sitting forward on his chair.
I give him an appraising look. The kid’s strong and must be clever if he made it this far, but I catch an ugly frown from his supposed second-in-command. If Lucca’s the Don, it’s not because everyone likes him.
That means he’s someone to watch.
“All right then, Don Pavone.” I gesture for Lycus to bring him a glass of whiskey. Lucca accepts it with a nod and takes a small sip. Smart man, keeping his wits about him. “I want to hear your opening offer.”
“The Pavone Famiglia would like to redraw the boundary lines of our respective organizations,” he says formally. “We will give up territory, businesses, and money, and swear that we’ll stay within our boundaries for as long as I’m in control.”
Which won’t be long, I’d guess. But I only nod. “What else?”
He hesitates. “We can, ah, offer you more. The dockworkers’ union, of course.”
“I already have them back.” I made a very large payment to their greedy fuck boss that very same morning. Lucca pales slightly, and I smile, shaking my head. “Keep trying.”
“We can, uh—” He clears his throat. “More generous payments. And some sportsbooks. Good gambling rackets. A few clubs—”
I take a long sip of whiskey and hold my hand up. Lucca falls silent, working his jaw. The fucker doesnotlike acting subservient to me, not at all. He’s the kind of mafia boss that took power through violence, and the sort of man that would rise to the top of an ugly fight like the one their family went through is not the sort of man to willingly take orders from anyone but himself.
And yet, here he is, doing just that.
“Lord Kazan,” Ciro says, holding out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We have other tributes we can make. Guns, shipments of drugs. What my Don is trying to say is we want to make things right between our organizations.”
