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Yet he’d assigned me a guard. And why order me to return later, even when I said I was too sore to sleep with him? Why be so tender, so caring? Why compliment me and make me feel . . . precious?
I belong to Vito D’Agostino and no one else.
Why make me say things like this?
Yet, I had. Eagerly. This man was a cold-hearted criminal and an asshole—he stole my winery from me!—and I’d given him everything he wanted. For what? A few orgasms? And now he was messing with my head.
I hated myself at that moment. I hated him, too—but I hated me more. Because I knew better.
My eyes grew hot. Dragging in a few deep breaths, I tried to pull it together. I splashed cold water on my face. It didn’t help and I realized that I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t sit out in the dining room, eating and smiling over lunch with everyone, while my thoughts were so tangled up. While my emotions were so bleak.
I needed to be alone. Horrifyingly, I thought I might need to cry.
There was a place I went when I craved solitude and thankfully only Mikey knew about it. I went there to grieve my parents or when it seemed like everything was falling apart. Like now.
With escape in mind, I left the restroom and avoided the main rooms. I snuck into Mikey’s office and grabbed an oldbottle of our dad’s favorite whiskey. Then I went outside and took the long way to the other building. At the metal door, I punched in the code and the lock disengaged. Once inside, I went down the stairs and into the rear of the wine cellar.
My grandad built lots of storage rooms and caverns down here. He must’ve thought we’d eventually become the biggest winery in the country and would have thousands of barrels to store. But we’d remained relatively small, so a lot of these underground spaces weren’t used. Except by me and the spiders.
The air was musty and stale, the cellar deathly quiet but familiar. The rough stone floor stretched out in front of me, rows of empty barrels on both sides. I headed toward the darkness. A stiff drink, an hour or two to myself—a few tears, maybe—and I’d be ready to kick ass again.
The opening appeared, a tiny room with brick walls and dark beams across the ceiling. Iron sconces hung on the walls, though they hadn’t worked in a long time, and an oak bar took up one side of the room. Years ago, Mikey and I dragged a leather couch in here, which we put against the back wall. Now the cave reminded me of a prohibition speakeasy, one that required a password to get in.
I flopped down on the leather and opened the whiskey bottle. The first swallow was always the worst, and this was no exception. “Motherfucker,” I hissed when I got my breath back.
Laying down, I stared at the ceiling. My entire body was sore from last night, not to mention my heart. “We fucked everything up, Dad,” I whispered to the brick. “I hope you and grandad aren’t too disappointed in me and Mikey.”
And with that, I finally let myself cry.
Vito
They weren’t hard to find.
Clyde at Sparkles told us their names, where they lived. All three bikers were young, in their 20s, and two of them still lived at home. We grabbed them as they left for their construction jobs, and we found the third in bed with his girlfriend. All three were restrained and gagged, then we drove them to an abandoned warehouse Tommaso found last night.
More than twenty of my men had arrived from Toronto this morning and every single one of them was pissed over Gaetano’s murder and eager for retribution. Now we held the three men responsible, and each would die a horrible, painful death.
I folded my arms and stared down at our captives. All three had tattoos covering their arms and neck—signs of racism and fascism, along with meaningless words and women’s names. “Look at you. Pigs in the dirt, where you belong,” I taunted. “Not one of you will walk out of here alive today. You took something from me, and I mean to see that all three of you suffer greatly for it.”
Their eyes burned with hatred in response.
I tilted my chin at Cesare. “Get them tied to the chairs and let’s start. Leave me the one on the end.” I wanted to personally work on Jimmy, the biker who’d been in the cottage on Maggie’s property.
It went on for a long time. I watched as my men worked out their anger and hurt over the loss of our cousin by hitting and slicing the two bikers, while the third watched helplessly. Blood coated the cement floor. Cesare and Tommaso were especially ruthless, cutting off fingers and toes, even an ear at one point. Every time one of the men passed out, someone was ready with smelling salts to revive him. Once they had to use an adrenaline shot.
There was no break, no mercy.
The third man, the one I was saving for myself, began to sweat when the first of his biker brethren had his tongue removed. Va bene. I wanted this man to suffer most of all.
I drank water as I waited. Read emails. The realtor had come through with an immediate rental house for my men, so I signed the contract. When we finished here, I’d see them settled.
Finally, the two bikers were dead, their limp bodies sprawled on the floor, lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Now it was my turn. I removed my overcoat and sweater, tossing them onto a metal cabinet, which left me in only a plain white t-shirt. I removed my watch. Set my phone down. A cold purpose settled into my bones. Not everyone could stomach torture, but I happened to excel at it. Massimo and I had overseen most of the interrogating for Enzo over the years.
On top of a wooden table were the bloody instruments my men had used today—a bone saw, a drill, three knives of various shapes and sizes. There was also my favorite: a pair of pliers. These inflicted more pain than people expected, especially when used to remove teeth.
Folding my arms, I leaned against the cabinet and regarded the last man. I thought of Gaetano’s body, sprawled in the woods like trash. Part of my family, my brotherhood. “Hi, Tater.”
His eyes widened in surprise, but he said nothing.