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“Christ, Renzo. I’m coming over,” Dario says, already on the move through his penthouse. “Where are you?”
“No. Stay near your computers. As soon as I know more, I need you to start digging for me.”
Only then does Franco recover enough from the initial shock to say, “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Angelo and Damiano also give their condolences, then Damiano asks, “Do you know who killed him?”
I shake my head. “It was for organ trafficking.”
“Fuck,” Angelo mutters. “That’s not something we deal with often.”
“If ever,” Dario adds.
Damiano, who’s thecapo dei capi –the boss of bosses – has a dark expression tightening his features. “Find out who’s trafficking in our area and eliminate them.”
Nodding, I glance at Giulio again. “I’ll call when I have more information.”
Before any of them can say anything else, I end the call and walk closer to the operating table. The grief that’s taken a backseat to my rage returns with a soul-crushing blow as I stare at my little brother.
Leaning down, I press a kiss to his forehead, then whisper, “Addio, fratello. Ti vendicherò.”
Straightening up, I turn away from Giulio and meet Elio’s eyes. “Stay here until everything’s taken care of.”
“Where are you going,” he asks.
“To the warehouse.” Walking to the door, I add, “Let me know the second you find out anything new.”
“Okay.”
With Fabrizio and Vincenzo flanking me, we head down the alley.
He didn’t deserve to die like that.
In some fucking mobile surgical unit at the back of an alley.
Cut open like he’s nothing more than cattle.
The rage in my chest turns deadly and merciless, and when we reach the sidewalk where the Bentley is parked, pedestrians scatter out of my way, fearful expressions on their faces as they shoot glances at me.
I’m going to hunt every last person responsible for Giulio’s death.
No one will escape my wrath.
Walking into the warehouse, I’m met with the sorrowful faces of my men. Here and there, one of them gives me a chin lift or pays their respects, but most are quiet.
I head to the back and up the steps to the room where Carlo has the fucker they found sniffing around in the alley kneeling on the concrete floor. Emilio’s already laid out all the torture instruments and stands ready behind the man.
I unbutton my jacket, and shrugging it off, I lay it across a table before I undo the buttons of my cuffs and roll up my sleeves.
Not bothering to look at the fucker, I ask, “Do you know who I am?”
“Renzo Torrisi,” he answers without hesitation.
I walk to the spread of tools we use to pry information from unwilling people and pick up a pair of pliers.
To inflict the most pain possible, I always start off with something small and work my way up. That way, it increases the pain and breaks down the man’s resistance.
Just as the fucker gets used to the pain, I hit harder.
