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“Put him down,” he whispers.
I let George go, not even caring that a minute ago I was hot on his tail. He immediately returns to his pool of water as if contrite for his behavior.
Nico drops to his knees in front of me and then drags up my skirt. He reaches into his breast pocket for something. A moment later, I see it’s my dagger and thigh holster. He slowly buckles it around my right thigh, taking his sweet time while I shake with desire.
When he’s done, he takes my hand and stares at the pink healing scar for a long time. Then he pushes back on his feet, stands, and takes a step back.
“One week, Sophie. Think about what you want. Buonanotte,” he says, reaching down to graze his thumb against my bruised lower lip.
And then he spins on his heels and leaves.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Chapter Thirteen
Nico
“Your brother’s got him ready for you, Signor Vitelli,” Salvatore informs me as I walk into the aluminum-cladded warehouse at the docks. He’s just about bouncing on the balls of his feet.
I’ve long since lost enthusiasm for the darker aspects of my work, but there’s a faint restless feeling in my fingers tonight, as if they’re still itching for what’s coming.
“Grazie, Salvatore,” I say as I cross the epoxy floors to the steel-slab door at the back of the building that leads down. Down to a concrete-walled room. Down to a room I’ve ventured into many times before.
Salvatore follows me, then rushes ahead at the bottom of the stairs to open the door to the concrete room.
Inside, there are two chairs, one of them steel and bolted to the concrete floor that’s been stained a rust color from blood. On the steel chair sits the man I’ve come to see, a man secured to the chair with ankle and wrist cuffs. Tommaso Barzini—one of Romano’s soldiers and the man who killed Leo.
He’s been stripped to his boxers, and he has a rag in his mouth. There’s a nasty purplish bruise marring his left eye—that’ll be the least of his injuries soon.
“I thought about gift-wrapping him for you, fratello, but I was fresh out of bows,” Dante says. He’s standing off to the right of Barzini, his arms crossed over his chest.
I nod and force a half-smile. “You can go, Salvatore,” I say as I look over my guest for the evening. Regardless of his enthusiasm, I’m not in the mood for an audience. Especially not Salvatore.
Salvatore’s expression falters for just a moment, but he nods and leaves the room without a word.
The door closes behind him, but I barely hear it as I stare at Tommaso Barzini. Though he’s glaring at me defiantly, his flabby body draws into itself, shoulders hunching, knees pressed together, calves digging into the steel legs of the chair. He’s trying to hide, to escape what’s coming.
I look away without a word and turn to the steel table against the far wall where every instrument a man could need is laid out. Knives. Pliers. A ball-peen hammer and three-inch-long nails. A few long, thin needles. No gun, though—that would be too quick.
“You killed a man who worked for me,” I say as I cross the room to the table. There’s no emotion in my tone, no rage, no satisfaction. Nothing. I’ve learned to hide these things well.
Barzini doesn’t make a sound, but I can feel his eyes on me without looking. He’s watching my every move as I run my fingers down the short hilt of a smaller combat knife nearest the edge of the table.
“So,” I continue, “You’re going to die today. There’s no walking away. No one is going to come for you. And you already know I am a man devoid of mercy.”
I leave the combat knife that looks too much like Sophie’s to be in this cold, dank room and reach for the one beside it. It’s longer and the edge is straighter, less curve to it. I pick it up and return to Barzini, where Dante is already standing behind him, his face grim. Even Dante doesn’t relish this part of our lives.
“What you must decide now is how quickly you want that end to come and how much pain you’re going to endure before it does.”
He mumbles behind the rag as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tight, his knuckles turn white.
I remove the gag, though I know it’s too early. Barzini is still rigid and unpliable right now. It’ll take days of torture and starvation, sprinkled with doses of threats and cajoling to soften him. Or an extreme degree of brutality if I want him to talk tonight. Sadly, it’ll have to be the latter because I don’t have the time or inclination to host this man for longer than necessary.
“So, Tommaso, are you going to make this easy on yourself and tell me what I want to know?”
“Fuck you, stronzo,” he curses, proving me right.
Dante heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Here we fucking go. Fratello, let me loosen him up a little. One ear and two fingers should do. He should be good and ready by tomorrow evening.”
