Page 1 of Tortured Hearts (Marchesi Empire #2)

GIANNI

Montclair, New Jersey

Four Months Ago

P enance is like rolling thunder, heard in the distance and often ignored. It isn’t until the skies turn black and the heavens unleash their fury that people run for cover. But by then, it’s too late. The storm has already descended.

That’s where I am right now… Caught in the eye of my own storm.

I glance up at the clock, watching as the second-hand ticks away another sixty seconds. After two hours, my irritation with it has dulled, and instead of grinding my teeth to the monotonous beat, I click my tongue to it.

Tick. Tock.

I don’t bother sliding my gaze toward the door.

I know it’s still going to be closed, just like it’s been for the last one hundred and fifty-four minutes.

Still, I’m in no hurry for company, especially men whose sole purpose in life is to ensure I spend the rest of mine behind bars.

Not that I don’t deserve to pay for what I’ve done, but I’m not the only one with blood on my hands.

I may have lit the match, but someone else fanned the flame.

Every muscle in my body aches from sitting in the same position, so I shift, but with my hands cuffed behind my back it gives little relief. I’m on the edge of snapping my wrists just to revive blood flow when the door opens, and two men in dark suits and pinched expressions walk in.

The moment we make eye contact, I know something’s off.

Instead of launching into the good cop/bad cop routine, they unbutton their jackets and solemnly take their seats across the table from me. Seconds pass. There’s no rush to question. No immediate accusations. No push for a confession. Just cool, calm, dangerous silence.

Shit.

I recognize a setup when I see one. Montclair Police may have brought me in, but they were just the opening act. The main show belongs to the Feds.

“Giovanni Marchesi…” the taller one says, tossing a folder on the table. He’s a lanky son of a bitch with a staring problem. Too bad my hands are bound. A swift swing of my pocketknife would take care of that for him. “I never thought I’d find you here.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I’m Agent Lattimore, and this is Agent Gibbs.” He nods to the sweaty, bald idiot sitting next to him. “In case you were wondering, we’re with the FBI.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your edge.” His attention drops along with his chin as he opens the folder. Grimacing, he spins it around, then shoves it toward me. “ Most men would after doing this to someone they claim to care about.”

First rule of interrogation: never respond how they want. A practice I’d have no problem adhering to if I didn’t already know what was in front of me. Call it destructive masochism, but I can’t stop my eyes from lowering … then, immediately regret it.

Her body is unrecognizable—burned beyond recognition. Looking away from the revolting image tips my hand too much, so, forcing a flat expression, I meet the bastard’s eye and lie. “I don’t know who that is.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t. Twenty-seven hours ago, she looked much different.

” Lattimore flips the page, and this one’s harder to look at because she’s smiling.

If she only knew. “Beautiful girl,” he notes.

“According to the medical examiner, she suffered horribly. Makes you wonder what was going through her head in those final moments.”

“I’d imagine it was confusion at why her lover lured her to her death,” his stockier counterpart pipes up.

I slide a lethal glare between them. “Do either of you have a point to make? I have shit to do.”

Lattimore slams his palms on the table. “Drop the act, Marchesi. We both know the fire at Nonna’s Ristorante was no accident, and neither was that girl’s murder.”

“Is that right?”

“Please, keep digging your own grave. You’re only giving us more ammunition for when this goes to trial.

” He leans in close, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“There’s a stack of vandalism and extortion-related harassment complaints filed against your family by Donatella and Luis Fiero.

Those would be your dead girlfriend’s parents and the owners of a smoking pile of ash, by the way. ”

I glare at him, the thin hold I have on my temper slipping.

“You fucked up this time, Gianni.” Sifting through the contents of the folder, he pulls out a photo and places it on top like a prize. “Or do you prefer to be called Torch ?”

I glance down to find a charred ace of spades.

Dramatic, but useless. The card may be my signature, but I’m no amateur.

I wear gloves to every job. There’s no way that thing has my prints on it.

Besides, no one outside the Marchesi elite knows I’m the fire-breathing enforcer of the New Jersey mob.

“Torch” has remained a faceless enigma for a reason.

I chuckle, breaking the silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Does the FBI seriously believe Marcello Marchesi’s son is out doing his dirty work? Come on, Lattimore; I thought you agents were smarter than that.”

“I admit it seemed far-fetched,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table. “Until an eyewitness put you at the scene of the crime.”

I shrug. “A simple case of mistaken identity.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Always.”

“Then explain how surveillance footage from a liquor store across the street from the crime scene captured another smoking gun.” His cool demeanor implodes as he flings the contents of the folder across the table until all that’s left is one photo.

I clamp my teeth so hard my jaw tics.

Fuck.

A steady roar rattles in my ears as I stare at the photo in his hands. They’ve magnified the grainy image to hell and back, but there’s no mistaking my face. They couldn’t have more damning proof if I’d jerked off in front of the blaze, then pissed in the ashes.

“Impressive.”

Lines dart across his forehead. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say? Congratulations? I’d clap, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

“So, that’s it?” A scowl blooms across his bony face. “No argument? No rebuttal? You’re willing to go down for arson and murder without a fight?”

Willing? No.

Resigned? Yes.

Every made man takes his oath knowing the path he walks will either end in front of a bullet or behind bars. I won’t beg for shit, especially leniency for the unforgivable. They can send me to jail or hell; it doesn’t matter. Knowing the truth is the worst punishment of all.

“The FBI has had a hard-on for my family for years, Lattimore. You should know our rules better than anyone.”

“Ah, yes… The omertà code of silence.” Tapping his forefinger to his chin, he leans back in his chair. “What would you say if I told you I don’t want to arrest you?”

“I’d say it’s a trap and to fuck off.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough. But what if the trap isn’t for you?”

“What if you stop dicking around and say what you mean?”

Ignoring his partner’s prominent side-eye, Lattimore clasps his hands together and rests his forearms on the table like we’ve become secret allies.

“Here’s the thing, Gianni… We have time-stamped footage that places you at the crime scene.

It’s a guaranteed conviction. But why cage a tiger shark when you can spear a great white? ”

“Your metaphors are getting irritating, Agent .”

The tension that’s been bouncing around the room spikes as his fist hits the table with a crack.

“I want your fucking father,” he snaps. “We’ve been tailing Marcello since you were a teenager, but he’s a smart bastard who’s always stayed one step ahead of us.

Just when we think we’ve established a pattern, he flips it. ”

No shit. My father is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He never meets in the same place twice, conducts mandatory pat downs before all meetings, and refuses to do business by phone. The paranoia I used to roll my eyes at doesn’t seem so outlandish now.

“That appears to be a ‘you’ problem,” I say coolly.

He nods. “Agreed. One you can solve with a choreographed conversion.”

This bureaucratic idiot has lost his damn mind. I’m glad my hands are restrained because what he’s suggesting is not only insulting, but it’s also suicide.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“You can get Marcello to talk, Gianni,” his partner interjects. “In fact, you may be the only one who can.”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

Lattimore exhales a frustrated breath. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for her .

” Drawing the crime scene photo from the folder, he pushes it across the table.

“Victoria Fiero didn’t deserve to die like this.

That girl had no business being in that restaurant.

While you’re a sick son of a bitch, you didn’t go there to kill her.

We know that was Marcello’s doing. What we don’t know is why. ”

I wish I didn’t.

Whoever said the “truth sets you free” was a fucking liar. It traps you in guilt and drowns you in hate. There are no secrets inside my father’s inner circle. The elite wear their sins like crowns. That’s why my father’s callous confession came as no surprise.

“You said the restaurant was empty.”

“And you said there wasn’t another woman. It seems we both lied.”

“She was innocent, you son of a bitch!”

“All choices have consequences, Gianni. Remember that next time.”

Staring down at what’s left of Victoria, I hover my foot over a sacred line.

He was right. All choices do have consequences.

A throat clears, and I glance up to find four steeled eyes on me. “Look,” Lattimore says, “we’re prepared to offer you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

His sullen expression brightens. “Get us something on Marcello, and we’ll plea bargain this down to involuntary manslaughter with time served.”

Both flinch at my sudden outburst of laughter. “You want me to wear a wire? Do you seriously think my father is that dumb?”

“No. We think he’s that arrogant. His men, he’d question.

But his son…?” Lattimore shakes his head with confidence.

“He’d never see poison in his own bloodline.

” No one says shit as that needle works its way under the surface.

When it’s embedded deep, he taps the center of the picture.

“If you want revenge for Victoria, then take it to the source. Don’t let her death be in vain. ”

I was wrong. This isn’t just a storm. It’s a goddamn hurricane.

I clench my fists behind my back. “Hypothetically, let’s say I get you what you want. Then, what happens?”

“We arrest him, have bail denied, then keep him incarcerated while he awaits trial.”

I chuckle. “Great. For the record, I prefer a closed casket.”

Lattimore stares at me, that strait-laced attitude launching into overdrive.

“I don’t think you understand, Gianni. Your part involves more than incriminating Marcello.

You’re our star witness. For your safety, you’ll be placed in protective witness relocation.

We’ll give you a new name, a new identity, and get you the hell out of New Jersey until this thing goes to trial.

Once you testify and put the final nail in the Deadpan Don’s coffin, you’re free to start over. ”

Freedom. What a pleasant illusion.

“What makes you think I want to start over?”

“You don’t have a choice.” Collecting the damning photos, he tucks them neatly inside the folder. Their stares turn from steely to impatient as the second hand of the clock ticks away the third and final hour. “So, do we have a deal?”

Hell no.

This isn’t their fight to win, and my father’s blood isn’t theirs to draw.

I’ll serve my time, then kill that bastard myself.

But as I open my mouth to tell them where they can shove their deal, a memory unlocks, and I’m thirteen years old again, watching my Uncle Anton drag my father’s blood-soaked body into the house.

I remember him shouting at me to take my T-shirt off and hold it to the bullet wound in his chest. I remember the white lights on the Christmas tree flickering across his pale face as crimson stained the floor. But mainly, I remember asking my father if he was afraid to die.

I’ll never forget his ragged response.

“Death is nothing, Giovanni. The only fate to fear is a cage.”

“Gianni?”

The memory fades, and once again, I’m in an interrogation room sitting across from two federal agents. Only this time, they’re not the enemy so much as a weapon.

I give them a slow smile. “Call me Johnny.”