Page 46 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

BEFORE

Rain lashed against the dormitory windows, turning the afternoon dark and gloomy enough that Sandro had turned on the desk lamp to light his work. Nero lay on his bed nearby, smoking a joint that they’d scored from a townie last time they’d taken a late-night visit. He watched Sandro, hunched over his small study desk. Sandro’s movements were precise. Surgical.

Snip. Snip. Snnn-ip.

The newly-arrived family photograph that his father had sent him had occupied his attention for the last fifteen minutes. He was slicing careful strips from it with a pair of sharp scissors, cutting away his half-brother, Julian. Sandro had been forced to pose for the picture during his last visit to America.

“Why not just cut him out in one go and be done with it?” Nero asked, as the soft, metallic snip, snip, snip became maddening.

“Because I want to destroy him utterly,” came the matter-of-fact reply. “I am going to cut this bastard into strips and then I am going to burn the pieces.” Sandro paused and surveyed his handiwork for a moment. “Maybe one day I’ll do the same in real life.”

“Oh, yes?” Nero laughed. “Chop him up and incinerate the pieces?”

“Hell, I’d settle for shooting him in the face. That stupid fucking face of his—” Sandro gave a hiss.

Nero knew Sandro hated Julian. Hated him beyond any measure that seemed reasonable—but Nero also knew it was mostly La Contessa’s influence. She never had a kind word for the boy. But he was undeniably beautiful. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, and beloved by his foolish father.

“Why the hell is he having photographs taken anyway? Your father?” Nero asked. La Contessa knew better than to be caught on film, but here Sandro’s father had insisted on all three Castellanis being captured by a professional photographer.

But Sandro would never say a word against his father. He didn’t then, shrugging off Nero’s question. He kept on snipping until at last he was satisfied with the picture. Nero came over to watch him put what was now a portrait of Sandro and his father alone in a heavy silver frame, and set it reverently on his desk. “There,” Sandro said with satisfaction.

“Let me burn these for you,” Nero said, sweeping up the fragments of Julian Castellani. “You’d probably just set your bed on fire.”

At last Sandro gave a grin. “Fuck off,” he said good-naturedly. “When are you going to let me forget that chemistry mistake? It was years ago.”

“The answer is never.” Nero grinned back.

But Sandro’s smile died as he watched Nero gather up all the pieces, even the tiniest fragments. “I mean it,” he said in a low, vehement voice. “One day I will put that bastard down.”

Nero crumpled the photograph pieces in his palm and tipped them into the aluminum ashtray he’d fashioned for his joint. “You won’t need any help, of course—but if you prefer not to dirty your hands, I’m your man.”

Sandro looked up, his dark expression clearing slightly. “You’d really do that for me?”

“Without hesitation.” Nero flicked his lighter and touched the flame to the scraps of photograph. They went up quickly and quietly, leaving nothing but charred curls behind.

“Thank you,” Sandro said at last, his voice unnaturally calm. “Someday, I might take you up on that offer.”