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The two bikies are red-faced and sweating, engaged in a silent argument about what they should and should not say.

Once theFamigliasoldiers have the quivering bikers’ hands flat, fingers splayed on the tabletop, I tap the hammer lightly on the wooden surface. “If you don’t answer this next question, I’m going to break one of your thumbs. Oneeach. Why did you threaten Francesca?”

The silent bikie shakes his head as if to say ‘I’m not saying anything’. I shrug and bring the hammer down hard on his thumb, shattering the bones and causing him to cry out in pain. He thrashes around trying to pull his injured hand into his chest, but our soldier is much stronger and holds his hand in place.

Immediately his chattier friend pipes up. “We were told to scare her out of marrying Elio Marino! That’s all!”

“That’s all,” my voice is almost a whisper, but I swear it could freeze Sydney Harbour on a summer day. “That’s all? Francesca’s delicate neck was black and blue for a week. Was it your hand that left those marks on her?”

The talker shakes his head profusely while his buddy whimpers quietly.

“Who left the marks on her?” I ask them both.

“Not me,” sobs the talker, instantly dobbing in the man next to him.

But suddenly the other man has something to say too. “It was Billy!” he gasps, glaring at the man next to him as if to dare him to contradict this accusation.

“Convenient given he isn’t here,” I sniff and turn to my brother. “Jesus, Matty. These two are just kids. They probably think when they get shot they’ll go back to the beginning of the level to respawn.”

At the word ’shot’ the talkative biker starts sobbing and begging for his life. The other guy is hunched over his mangled thumb, breathing heavily.

“I don’t think they have much useful information, G,” he says and I agree we aren’t going to get anything substantial from them.

“Shall we just get to the punishment then? I’ve got a busy afternoon,” I push my sleeves further up my arms, nearly to my elbow.

“W-w-what’s our p-p-punishment?” the talker asks. Pathetic little whiner. We were taught to shut the fuck up if we were captured by enemies.

“Well, I could kill you. Easily. But I want you to go tell your mate Billy what will happen to him if he even thinks about doing something like this again. Can you pass on the message?” They both nod at me, relieved.

Their relief is short-lived when I ask Matty to pass me a meat cleaver. “You do one and I’ll do one,” I tell Matty and he nods. The biker’s eyes widen and panic sets in once more. Chatty lad’s begging goes up a notch and the smell of urine overpowers the scent of bleach in the room as he pisses himself. Gross.

“You’re each going to lose a hand. But because I’m nice, I’ll let you choose which hand.”

My face and white shirt are splattered with blood as we head back upstairs and I feel much better. The swing and clunk of the meat cleaver slicing through flesh and bone echoes in my mind. Retribution always feels good.

No one fucking touches Francesca Rossi. I want those little bikie birdies to sing. I want them to tell everyone who will listen that if you fuck with Francesca, you will get fucked up by the Marinos.

Chapter Thirty-One

Giovanna

32 Years Old

“Mum, honest to God, I will spit in the cunt’s food if he is invited to one more family dinner,” the venom in Massimo’s voice makes me do a double take.

Peta has a saucepan on every ring of the stove and she is in full Sunday dinner mode. One hand is on her hip and the other holds a wooden spoon, red sauce dripping from it onto the floor as she gapes at her gigantic man-child.

“You’re going to spit in who’s food?” I ask, smacking Massi lightly on the back of the head as I slouch into the kitchen in search of a Gatorade and some painkillers. Hangovers are worse in your 30s. It’s all downhill from here.

“Oh, no one! Your brother is just being a hormonal teenager!” Peta is shrill and Peta is never shrill.

I narrow my eyes. “Well,thatwas convincing, Pete…” Especially since he is hardly a spotty prepubescent kid. He’s 18 and well over 6ft tall.

Massimo is glaring at his mother with a ferocity I have never seen before. It is unsettling. These two are usually as thick as thieves. He is a mummy’s boy and Peta thinks the sun rises and sets on his big half-Italian head.

“He’s just grumbling about having to spend time with all of us old folks, right Massi?” Peta persists, this time with a false smile so tight it is practically a grimace.

“Whatever,” Massimo responds, rolling his eyes and pushing off his stool. He thuds past me and out of the kitchen without a backward glance.