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My heart raced as we fought for dominance, then I got a butterfly hook in and rendered him immovable in a Guillotine choke in ten seconds flat.
Extremely unsatisfying.
Pussy.
I leaned forward and put more pressure on his throat. “Do not fuck with me. Do not challenge me. Either you accept how I run this family or you get out and possibly end up with a bullet in your head. Your decision.” I tightened my arms.
Alessandro snarled but tapped.
I let go immediately.
I didn’t need this shit in my own house, but as it seemed, I had a lot of clean-up to do before I could sleep without my hand on my gun.
Sadly, I would also sleep without Sophie.
“Okay, knock it off, you two. Alessio would never go into trafficking.” My brothers exchanged a glance—one that I couldn’t place.
Why was Cristo so sure of that? What had I missed?
“What about the other sisters?” Cristo asked.
I stood and offered my hand to Alessandro. After a couple of tense seconds, where we just glared at each other, he reached for my hand and let me help him up.
A truce.
Now I at least knew he wasn’t working with Fausto. His reactions. The look in his eyes—I didn’t detect any signs of deception.
Or that he was a better actor than I gave him credit.
“We need to get to the bottom of this. Who is running the club if you’re not there?”
“Enzo.”
“Enzo Falcone—as incuginoEnzo?”
Alessandro nodded.
Jesus.
Our cousin Enzo had been borderline psycho when we were kids. “Is he still into torturing animals?”
Alessandro’s eyes turned huge.
It was never an official thing, but my mother forbade me to hang out with cousin Enzo—even though we were the same age. And one night, when I was sneaking out, I overheard my mother and father talking about Enzo getting caught killing a cat.
“I don’t know about torturing animals, but he’s doing a lot of the dirty work for the family.”
Great. Not that the men of my family weren’t dark and twisted. But there was a fine line between men who did what they did for power and honor and men who killed and tortured to satisfy a twisted need deep within them.
The first ones were cold-hearted killers you could count on; the second ones were sociopaths. Irresponsible, dangerous, and flat-out crazy.
“How often does Fausto visit Verona?”
Alessandro shrugged. “About every two weeks, maybe. He’s Enzo’s godfather.”
I sighed. “We need to go to Verona.”
Alessandro nodded, and Cristo grinned. “Road trip.”
