Page 60 of Empire of Seduction (New York State of Mafia #2)

twenty-six

. . .

Vito

Maggie flew back to Paesano yesterday. I already missed her.

Before she left, she came to the compound and met my family, some of them for the first time.

As anyone might’ve predicted, she and Gianna took an instant liking to one another, whispering in a corner for almost an hour.

I suspected Enzo and I were the topic of conversation.

I knew I would be too distracted if she was close, so I sent her home, with the promise of seeing her tonight.

After we dealt with the Red Raiders, I planned to stay in Paesano for a week before returning to Toronto.

So much needed to be done, and I had a lot of time to make up for with Maggie.

Whatever it took to make this relationship work, I would do it.

Despite my many protests, Enzo and Giacomo Buscetta insisted on returning to New York with me to deal with the bikers.

On the flight, Giacomo seemed quiet and intense.

My older brother, on the other hand, nearly vibrated with anticipation, his leg bouncing ever since we departed Toronto with a small army of my men. He was itching to bloody his hands.

Enzo’s hackers learned everything we needed to know about the Red Raiders before we even left the airport.

“The pezzi di merda responsible for the fire fled to a town called Utica,” Enzo told us. “They’ve been laying low at a bar there called The Regency Lounge. Their leader is named Pete Mercer, who is called Baron for some dumb fucking reason, and he’s there with four others.”

“I spoke to Mercer once,” I said. “He obviously didn’t get the message.”

Giacomo remained silent, relaxed in his seat with his eyes closed, but a smile curled the corners of his mouth. The opposite of my brother, who sneered, “I can’t fucking wait.”

We didn’t waste any time after landing in Syracuse. We loaded into our rental cars and drove to pick up our weapons. Buscetta used a local connection to get us HK45s and shotguns, plus the three cans of gasoline that I requested. Once armed, we set off for Utica.

Five or six motorcycles were parked near the front entrance of the lounge, a neat row of chrome and leather, flying Raiders colors. The energy in the car crackled as we pulled up to the curb a short distance from the bar and got out.

“Cesare, wait by the side door,” I said.

“Tommaso, there must be a kitchen or back door. Find it. We’ll go in two minutes from now.

Look for bikers, weapons, and anyone that doesn’t have to be there.

I want to flay these fuckers alive and I want no surprises.

The rest of you stay out front. If anyone needs telling, The Regency Lounge is closed for the night. ”

Tommaso and Cesare left to cover the secondary exits. Enzo, Giacomo and I approached the door, while the rest of my men surrounded the front of the building.

The three of us walked calmly into the bar.

The place was dimly lit, which was no surprise.

Neon beer signs and the lamp over the pool table provided most of the light, with two televisions above the bar adding a bit more.

A jukebox droned from the back of the bar next to what looked like an ancient cigarette machine.

Quickly, I assessed the occupants. A bartender, a drunk nursing a beer at the end of the bar, and three bikers playing pool. Perfetto.

One of the bikers put down his cue and came toward us. “You three are clearly in the wrong place,” came a gravely rasp I recognized instantly as Baron’s. “Why don’t you all get lost before something bad happens.”

“We’re in exactly the right place,” I said, facing him. “Baron.”

Cesare entered and blocked the side door, which caught the attention of everyone in the room. One of the bikers started slowly edging toward the kitchen door when Tommaso stepped into view, halting the biker’s progress.

Glancing at Tommaso, I asked, “What did you find?”

“No kitchen staff. Three pistols that I dropped in the deep fryer.”

Suddenly, the bathroom door banged and a fourth biker entered the room, fumbling with his zipper.

Giacomo shot him in the chest twice with his pistol, spattering the wall behind him and dropping the biker to the floor.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed the bartender standing from a crouched position.

I shot him in the head, shattering the mirror behind the bar just as his sawed-off shotgun blew a huge hole in the ceiling.

That left the drunk and three bikers remaining. None of the bikers moved, our guns aimed squarely at their chests.

The smell of propellant hung in the air like burned hair and pennies, and a haze of gun smoke floated toward the ceiling.

As the ringing in my ears gave way to near silence, I glanced at the drunk, who was trembling on his stool.

His loose pants were soaked between the crotch.

“Get out,” I ordered, then watched as he stumbled away from the bar and disappeared through the front door.

Finally, Baron spoke. “I guess you think you’re a big man while your crew has the upper hand.”

“Like how you and your men felt,” I asked, “when you crept onto the winery property after dark and torched my cottage when no one was there to fight back?”

Baron said nothing, just stared hatefully at me.

But I wasn’t done. “Or like when you poured gasoline over the grapes, dropped a match, and scurried away in the night like vermin? Is that what a big man does, Baron?”

“So you’re here to kill us?” Baron gestured to his men. “We’re unarmed. That’s hardly fair.”

“I don’t give a fuck about fair , you worthless piece of shit. You think because you wear fake leather that this is some bullshit American western, like Shane ? You think we should put down our arms and fight you hand to hand?”

“We’re defenseless and you’re a coward,” said Baron.

“You’re pathetic. Italians do it better—or haven’t you seen a Corbucci movie? None of you will make it out of here alive.”

“Too much talking,” Enzo said under his breath just before raising his arm. With three rapid shots, he popped each of the three standing bikers in a knee, dropping them like sacks of flour.

Tommaso rushed over to aim the oversized barrel of his shotgun at Baron’s balls, while Cesare frisked each biker as they writhed in pain, pulling two small pistols from ankle holsters.

The screams of agony gave me no satisfaction.

I wanted more pain and suffering from these three.

I could taste the powder in the air as I advanced on Baron, while Giacomo descended on the nameless biker on the left.

Enzo pulled a giant blade from his belt, smiling gleefully at the biker on the right.

“This is going to be fun,” my brother murmured.

I kicked Baron’s shattered knee as hard as I could, relishing the resulting howl that fell from the man’s lips. Then I picked up a pool cue and broke it in half on the edge of the pool table with a snap, the narrow end clattering across the room. Then I used the makeshift weapon on Baron.

Again and again, I hit him, careful not to kill him. Each time he started to slip into unconsciousness, I pushed the jagged edge of the cue into his knee to bring him screaming back to life.

He begged and pleaded, spit running down the sides of his mouth and onto the floor. But I wasn’t listening. He thought he could light a match and walk away. Like the flames wouldn’t follow him. I wanted him to experience a living hell before being greeted by the devil himself.

“Mangia merda e muori!” I shouted down at him. Eat shit and die!

I hit him so many times the rest of the room became a blur. My arm ached from the blows, muscle straining as I kept raining blows on Baron’s head. I thought I heard voices, but I didn’t stop.

Suddenly, Giacomo pulled me off of Baron and then Enzo was in my face. “Didn’t you hear me calling your name?” When I shook my head, he took the broken pool stick out of my hand. “Finish this, fratello. The other two are already dead. Let’s go home.”

I glanced down at Baron. Air bubbles formed and popped at his nose with each breath, and the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut stared at me in a mixture of fear and resignation.

“I’m not done yet,” I said, and pulled out my switchblade, grabbed Baron by his ear, and sliced it off.

“See, testa di cazzo? This wasn’t Shane . It’s Django .” I crammed the mutilated ear into his mouth and, before he could try to spit it out, I shot him in the head.

“You watched too many movies on the yacht,” my brother remarked casually as he tucked the pistol into his waistband.

“What else were we supposed to do?” I grumbled as we walked to the door. “Those movies kept Maz and I sane.”

“I like spaghetti westerns,” Giacomo said. “ A Fistful of Dollars is my favorite.”

“A great movie. Leone was a genius.”

We went outside and Tommaso was standing on the sidewalk, staring at the motorcycles. “Wait,” he said. “There are five bikes here and we killed four. There was no one in the kitchen. You think the bartender was a Raider?”

I jerked my thumb toward the entrance. “You and Cesare go back in and check behind the bar, check the bathroom. Make sure no one is hiding.”

While we waited, I lit a cigarette, the last I’d ever smoke. I promised Maggie that I’d give them up and I meant to keep my word.

Seconds later Tommaso returned with a fifth biker, who looked as terrified as anyone I’d ever seen. And, in my line of work, that was saying something.

“Found him hiding in a booth, Don D’Agostino,” Tommaso said.

“What’s your name?” I asked the young man. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

“Wade,” the biker could barely squeak out.

“What did you see in there, Wade?”

“Nothing, I swear!” the biker croaked.

“That’s too bad. Cesare, take him back inside and show him what happened.”’

“Everything, I saw everything!” Wade put up his palms. “P-please don’t kill me!”

“Cristo santo,” Enzo muttered in disgust.