AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Hai preso la decisione consapevole di mettere le mani su qualcosa che apparteneva a me!”You made the conscious decision to put your hands on something that belonged to me!Gone is the attempted calm demeanor as I shout, saliva particles flying into the shield that is his face.
His dull, dark eyes close, and I grip his throat until he’s forced to open them again. The pressure from my tightening hold builds, and his face discolors under the strength of my unyielding grasp.
“Apri gli occhi, fottuto codardo!”Open your eyes, you fucking coward!I yank him forward, using the hold I have on his neck, and our foreheads slam together.
“What kind of man puts his hands on a woman?” I ask the rhetorical question, but the dumbfuck answers, thinking he’s saying what I want to hear.
“I’m s-sorry. I was only—“
“Following orders?” I interrupt his insulting excuse, forcing myself down to his eye level once again as he sits on the cold concrete floor, his hands bound behind his back. “E chi ti ha dato quell'ordine?”And who gave you that order?
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he twists his face into a grimace and shakes his head back and forth.
“Chi cazzo ti ha ordinato di uccidere mia moglie?”Who the fuck ordered you to murder my wife?
“I don’t understand Italian, only a few phrases. Please, you—”
I connect my fist with the side of his jaw. His head forcefully falls to the side, blood spraying from his mouth and landing on the brick wall, trickling down into each and every crack. The moment he turns his face back to me, I punch him again, this time in the center of his chin, sending his head back against the bricks with pure, uncaged rage.
I deliver blow after blow until his face is nothing but a swollen purple mess of what it once was; his eye sockets are already swelling up over the bottoms of his eyes. Blood drips from every orifice on his face—his eyes, nose, and mouth—seeping with the cherry-red liquid.
“Sai chi ha il sangue di mia moglie sulle mani. E sai chi ha il sangue di mia sorella sulle mani sporche del cazzo. Parlerai. La morte non verrà finché non lo farai.”You know who has my wife's blood on their hands. And you know who has my sister's blood on their filthy fucking hands. You'll talk. Death won't come until you do.
It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t speak the language. He isn’t fucking talking.
I yank his head backward by his sweat-drenched hair so the tiny slivers of his eyes can meet mine again before I spit in his face. His tears fall freely, and I find it absolutely disgusting that a made man can cower to such a pathetic fucking degree.
I bend forward and lick the trail of bloody tears as they cascade down his cheek and then slam my forehead into his as hard as I can, adrenaline pumping through my veins like I’m an addict who just got a hit.
And honestly, I am. And I did.
There’s nothing I want more than to channel every single fucking ounce of anger that’s been festering in my bones into beating this bastard to death, making him suffer the way I have for the past year.
The mother of my child, dead. My sister, dead. His family has taken two of the most valuable women in my life away, and he will pay with his life. They all will.
But only after I drain them of every ounce of blood in their bodies. Only after I’ve left no skin on their frames. After they are nothing but unrecognizable, broken cowards who have nothing else to live for.
I don’t know exactly who is to blame for the deaths of my wife and sister. Who physically drained the life from their bodies. But one by one, I’m taking their men, and I’m destroying them. Gutting them. Ruthlessly ending each of their lives.
And eventually, one of them will talk. There’s always a weak few behind the men on the front line. Always. Knowing it was the Amatos is enough. I’ve been on this warpath for a year now, and I’m not resting until we have concrete answers.
And a hell of a lot more bloodshed.
I land another blow to the fucker’s chin and shake my fist out before pausing to catch my breath. My vision darkens, and a light ringing buzzes in my ears. Between beating this fuck to a pulp and dealing with a whole other issue with a few of my soldiers, I’ve been going nonstop since yesterday morning.
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt you right now. I know this is high priority”—one of my soldiers stands before me, and I’m half tempted to tell him to get fucked—“but it’s almost ten, and we have guests arriving. Boss wants you upstairs.” He pauses. “And honestly, I feel like you could use a minute. You only speak in Italian when you’re about to murder someone, and I don’t think you want him dead yet.”
He’s lucky I like him. Otherwise, I’d chop his head off for fucking telling me what to do.
Leave it to the boss to insist I run the club only to micro-fucking-manage me every goddamn day. I’m thirty-eight years old. I don’t need thebossto tell me how to behave in my own damn club.
“Get out,” I mutter to the soldier, unable to meet his eyes.
I turn away from the coward in front of me, not giving the bound and bloody Amato bastard one more second of my time for the night. He chokes and sputters on the blood rolling down his throat as he tries to plead with me, but his words are unintelligible.
I’m a bloody fucking mess, and I need to get ready to greet my guests. After all, some of the wealthiest politicians in Chicago who are not yet under our thumb will be in attendance at the party I’m hosting this evening.
And after all the bloodshed this past week, I need a fucking breather.
