Page 229 of Bitter Poetry

“Be my guest.” Leon gestures to where Ettore sits, head lolling to one side.

Christian punches him in the gut—twice—and then in the face.

“Before this is over, I’m going to cut your dick off and choke you on it.” He squeezes Ettore’s bloody face between his fingers and thumb. “Don’t worry, you will still be conscious—don’t want you to miss the main event. And when you’re choking on it, when you’re drawing your last breath and it gets all fuzzy and you know this is the end, I want you to remember the woman whose life you ruined. And I want you to remember my uncle Stephano. He was a good man, and I had a lot of respect for him—I fucking loved him. Guess you’re feeling a bit fucking stupid now, thinking I was your man. Not for a second did I ever give a shit about you, just so you know. Just in case you were confused.”

He taps Ettore’s cheek when his eye starts to roll back. “Ah, ah. You don’t get to sleep through the good stuff.”

He stands up.

“Dante?” Leon asks.

“It’s probably going to get messy at this point.”

“That’s okay,” Leon replies. “Do whatever you need to do.”

One of the items sitting on the table is a hammer.Thehammer. Mateo saved it for me—he’s thoughtful like that.

I pick it up and get a feel for the weight. My footsteps take me to stand before Ettore. His one eye rolls wildly. I’d say he’s closing in on the begging stage, and yes, I really like this look on him.

“I’ve never considered myself much of a ‘hands-on’ kind of soldier. But you know, when you sent those thugs aroundto break all my fingers, it changed me. If you were who you pretended to be, just a capo who moved up to underboss through tragic circumstances, one who later rose to don, once more through tragic circumstances, I’d have done right by you. Stayed as your consigliere and given you my loyalty. I’d even have watched you marry Carmela, and abided by that decision, had you treated her with respect.”

“But you didn’t even get the first promotion on merit. No, you killed my fucking uncle, left my aunt a widow and my cousins without a father. Then there is Carmela…” I feel my rage seeping into my tone. “So, you know, circumstances change people. You changed me—as the saying goes, it’s time for you to reap what you sowed.”

His wrists are conveniently zip-tied to the wooden arms of the chair. His one eye shows too much white around the edges.

I can’t deny it. I like his terror.

I lift the hammer and bring it down,hard. There’s a satisfying crack. The blow is so violent that not only does it break his hand, but it also breaks the arm of the chair. Blood and splinters of wood shoot everywhere. He howls behind the gag.

The sound of his torment unleashes a darkness inside me. I bring the hammer down on the other side. I’m fucking high on his blood-curdling scream. My chest heaves as I watch him convulse in the throes of agony as blood drips and pools onto the floor.

He passes out.

“Please tell me he’s not yet dead,” Cedro says coldly.

“Nope. Just having a little nap,” Christian says cheerfully.

He steps forward. I step slightly back. He takes one of Ettore’s shattered hands and twists it back. A crack follows—Ettore rouses with a high-pitched scream.

“Break him,” Cedro demands. “Break every bone in his worthless body. He killed my wife. He hurt my daughter. He killed Stephano, and, then, to my shame, I trusted him.”

“Not a problem.” Christian takes the hammer from me.

He’s cold and efficient. Every smash of the hammer, every hoarse scream, and every arc of blood is a form of violent poetry—sadistic art.

This man deserves being broken and more. By the time Christian has finished, his chest is heaving, and he’s splattered copiously in blood… as are the floor and walls. The chair is in pieces and Ettore lies on the floor, gurgling, his body twisted and obscene.

“Go ahead,” Leon says. “Finish him.”

The hammer clatters against the floor. Christian draws his knife and liberates Ettore of his shriveled cock. Prying his mouth open, he forces it deep inside before he clamps his fingers around Ettore’s jaw and holds his mouth shut.

Ettore thrashes and jerks, his broken arms and legs twitching, gushing blood as he fights for breath.

A sense of relief washes over me when he goes still.

“It’s done,” Leon says.

“Almost,” Christian says. He lifts his foot and brings his boot down over Ettore’s skull. He’s got heavy boots on. I didn’t pay attention before, but it delivers a squelchy-crack as he breaks the former don’s skull.