Page 2 of Cruelest Contract (Storm’s Eye Ranch)

JULIAN

“ W hat do you know?” Tye’s boot kicks the charred pile. “This Dollar Store phony cowboy had a gold tooth.”

“Feel free to call dibs,” Fort grumbles and stabs the shovel into the earth again to deepen the hole. “Nobody will fight you for it.”

“Speak for yourself.” Getty hunches down for a closer look. “I like souvenirs.”

Tye drops his shovel and grins, sensing a challenge. “In that case, stand up and take your beating, shithead.”

I swipe the shovel off the ground and savagely scoop up a heap of human remains that have been burned to a crisp. “No souvenirs. Now quit clowning around before I get pissed off and knock your heads together.”

Tye starts cackling. “Our captain sure gets testy without his morning coffee.” He plunks his ass down with a grunt, having decided the best way to help out is to take it easy and watch the rest of us sweat.

Arguing with him isn’t worth my time. It’s been a long night and this chore needs to get finished. We’re a two hour ride back to the ranch and I dislike the way the clouds are thickening overhead.

Getty seems like he’s considering whether he should push my buttons by taking a time out beside Tye. One look at my face convinces him this wouldn’t be a good choice. Very wise, considering how much he’s already busted my balls in the last twenty-four hours.

“I’ll deal with this,” Getty says to Fort and holds his hand out. “You get the horses ready to go. You’re better at it.”

Fortunato recognizes reason when he hears it. It’s one of his best traits. He silently hands over the short-handled shovel and heads for the trees where four sturdy ranch horses are tied up.

Getty is a solid worker once he digs in and decides to be useful. An uncommonly warm spring now works in our favor. The ground is nicely thawed and soft. In no time we’ve got the pile of bones and ash buried, gold tooth and all.

Now that the work is done, Tye finally climbs to his feet. He spits on the dirt and then cracks up with laughter. I swear, he’ll be laughing as he wheezes out his dying breath.

He’s next in line after me but it’s not easy to picture him being in charge of anything. A few seasons in the NHL, where he averaged two fights per game and won the prize for league penalties, has convinced people he carries a chip on his shoulder.

I know my brother better than they do. Tiberius Tempesta doesn’t care about proving a damn thing to anyone. He fights because he likes to fight and that’s as deep as his reasons get.

The exception comes when it’s time to defend the family. Then he shifts to raging bull mode.

“Maybe we should say a few words for the dearly departed,” Tye says and punctuates the comment with a loud belch.

“Think I’ll give him a more appropriate sendoff.” Getty opens his jeans and aims a stream of piss.

My brothers, charming as princes.

I shake my head but don’t say a word while Getty waters the earth.

“Ready to ride,” Fort calls and smoothly heaves himself into a saddle.

Without looking back, I follow my brothers to the horses, leaving the fresh grave behind. Once we ride out of here, its location will be forever lost.

There might be someone out there who will always wonder what happened to this man, but all signs indicate the world is better off now that he’s no longer in it.

However, with this piece of unpleasant business handled, I’ve got one more on my agenda.

Tye has already climbed into a saddle and Getty has one foot in a stirrup when I grab the back of his shirt and give it a hard yank. He stumbles, caught off guard and sputtering. I move right in to seize a handful of thick flannel fabric and get right in his face.

“What’s the rule, Gaetano?”

He tries to throw me off. Can’t. Scowls. “Fuck your lessons, Julian. I’m too old for that shit.”

“And that attitude is exactly why you still need some guidance. Answer the question.”

He’s seething but not foolish enough to take a swing. “That piece of shit was a traitor.”

“I know it.”

“Haven’t we always said there’s nothing worse?”

“Sure. And he got what he deserved. But we might have squeezed some useful information out of him before you opened his throat.”

My brother rolls his eyes. “The fucker was a lowly hired gun. Not the consigliere of the Chicago mob.”

“Not the point. This time all you did was give some lousy spy a few minutes less on this earth. But next time your tantrum might provoke more than my temper. Every time you lash out you’re acting for us all. Remember that.”

He’s still sulking but the speech also made an impression. He doesn’t feel guilty. I’m not sure he knows how. All of his badass flexing isn’t just for show but his loyalty is never in question.

Holding his tongue for once, Getty nods before meeting my eye again. “I get it. Lecture’s over.”

Good enough. I slap his shoulder as a message that the matter is now settled. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us and I’m so fucking hungry I could eat one of the horses.”

Getty snorts and hops on the back of his mount. He intentionally bumps into Tye as he steers out of the clearing and Tye curses before giving chase. Fort waits until I’m in the saddle and then follows our brothers, leaving me as the last one to guide my horse away from the scene.

The man we killed and buried was an enforcer in Chicago’s Bonafaci family.

Two months ago he showed up at the ranch looking for work with a story he’d just finished serving three years in Idaho for robbery.

The name he gave checked out and his skills showed he’d spent time on a ranch.

My guess is he killed the real ex-con. He caught my attention when our foreman mentioned he’d picked a few fights with the other cowboys.

That’s when I took a much closer look at his story.

I’ve learned never to be surprised when some cocky upstart makes a foolish plan. He was sent here by his bosses, either to gather intel or make some trouble.

We’ll never know his objective. But nothing raises my hackles like a double crosser.

We took that bastard in. Put a roof over his head.

Gave him a living. And he chose to pay us back with treachery.

That’s not a redeemable offense. I would have preferred to extract more information from him before sending him to hell but Getty jumped the gun and sliced him from ear to ear in a fury.

He bled out in less than a minute while we watched. It’s a fucked up way to die. Men who get their throats cut always try to push the blood back inside with their fingers. And they always look so surprised when they can’t.

The dead man will never be mentioned at Storm’s Eye Ranch again. Our foreman is loyal. None of the wranglers will question the story that he packed his shit up and fled in the night. This happens sometimes and for any number of reasons.

Now our Chicago affiliates are primed to teach the Bonafaci family a painful lesson; you fuck with the top of the food chain and you’ll get eaten alive.

When all is said and done, there will be nothing left of them. The meager territory they’ve been so desperate to keep will be under our banner. Serves them right.

It’s funny, but not long ago I came across a news segment about the modern Mafia.

Some suit and tie dipshit with a polished Ivy League smirk declared, “The brutal and secretive Mafia network that was glamorized by Hollywood and held entire cities in its vicious grip for decades is on life support these days.”

Ha! I got a hell of a laugh out of that. Then I showed it to my brothers and we all cracked up together.

If these civilians enjoy curling up under their covers at night and dreaming about the extinction of the Mafia, so much the better.

To their eyes, we might be mildly interesting as a wealthy ranching family.

We’re the ones who benefit when they don’t look any deeper at the vast web of connections that combine into our empire.

A light rain begins to fall when we’re still a few miles from the ranch.

Every once in a while I remove my hat to shake away the water on the brim but otherwise the weather doesn’t bother me.

The taste of spring is everywhere and the hills are painted a deeper green every day.

All the seasons of my life have been spent here and I’ll never tire of celebrating the warmer months after a long and dreary winter.

I’m a few paces behind my brothers and halfway listening as they make plans to drive into Laramie tonight. The university is still in session for a few more weeks and there’s a far more impressive selection of hot girls than we get to see in the nearby small town of Vigilance.

Fort turns his head and searches me out. “You coming, Jul? You should.”

“How about it, big brother?” Getty flashes a wicked grin that promises trouble. “Why not clear those cobwebs off your cock and live a little?”

Tye finds this insult way too funny and howls so hard he nearly falls off his horse. “Cobwebs,” he cackles and slaps his thigh.

I’m not going to defend the state of my cock to these assholes.

When I reach my limit and need a fuck, I never have any trouble finding a pretty face who wants a good time.

But one negative feature of living and working so closely with your own brothers is they know when you haven’t been serviced in a while.

Flipping through the calendar in my mind, I hold back a wince when I realize that I haven’t touched a pair of tits since a trip to L.A. last summer.

In my defense, I’ve been busy. Being Cassio Tempesta’s eldest son and right-hand man isn’t a role for anyone who expects a lot of leisure time.