Page 15 of Tortured Hearts (Marchesi Empire #2)

GIANNI

Don’t leave Providence. Don’t trust anyone.

I stare at Owen’s latest text, unsure if I want to high-five him or punch the shit out of him.

Relinquishing my grip on a half-empty glass of Johnnie Walker Black, I type out, then erase three different responses, eventually downgrading to one that doesn’t threaten to pulverize multiple vital organs.

Two warnings that would’ve been useful yesterday.

Frustrated, I toss my phone on the table and run a hand over my chin, my gaze straying back to the monitor. Becca is sitting in the far-left corner of the room, her back to the camera. The screen is grainy, but even the worst resolution couldn’t hide her from me.

Four hours later and her question is still spinning inside my head.

“Why am I here?”

All I can see are her blue eyes, and the splintered hope I ground into dust with a cruel but necessary response.

Twisting the moment we met into a sin was like firing a bullet into my chest, especially after seeing that damn tattoo.

But right now, I need her cooperation more than her affection.

I already crossed the line in fucking her.

I sure as hell can’t offer a truth I can barely admit to myself.

“Because I fell for the forbidden fruit.” I tip my glass back and down what’s left.

“A few weeks with a shrink and you sound like a suicidal Hallmark card.”

I glance across the control room to find my father’s underboss standing in the doorway like a sniper. “You lost, Anton?”

And by the looks of him, I mean more than his location.

After driving to the estate in dead silence, I assumed he’d get the hint and fuck off.

It seems I underestimated his ability to read a room.

Because here he is hours later, in a pressed designer black suit, while the rest of him seems trapped in an uncharacteristic state of chaos.

Deep lines carve their way across his forehead, while each strand of his gray hair appears to be fighting its own war and losing.

“Still a smartass, I see.” The corners of his mouth lift, but his eyes stay outlined in a bitterness I understand all too well. But I’m not stupid. Talk is cheap, and trust is a costly commodity earned in blood.

Anton Altieri has stood at my father’s side for over thirty years.

I don’t know how deep the rivers of his loyalty run, and as private as he is, they’re not bridged easily.

Considering his actions at the club, I have to assume he had a hand in stirring the pot of shit that trapped Becca in a cage and me in the line of fire.

“Still showing up where you’re not wanted, I see.”

“Because you’re a stubborn pain in my ass. I was supposed to take you home hours ago.” When I say nothing, he exhales roughly and nods at the screen. “You’re no good to her if you collapse, you know. When’s the last time you slept?”

“November.”

“Cut the shit.” Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he pulls out the chair beside me and sits down. “You want to tell me what the hell you think you’re doing?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“That performance you put on at the ’Boo. Pulling a gun on Marcello wasn’t the smoothest way back into the family.”

“If that’s what you think I’m doing here, then one of us is delusional.” I scan him up and down like a grade-A asshole who has no room to talk. “Lucky for you, I know one hell of a psychiatrist. If you ask nicely, I could put in a good word for?—”

His palm connects with the back of my head. “You break omertà and suddenly you got jokes?”

I grab his wrist. “Don’t touch me again, Anton.

That’s your only warning.” He lowers his gaze to my grip, then lifts it back to my face.

Taking his silence as a concession, I let go, then flip a switch on the control board, turning the image on the screen black.

“I asked you a question. Why are you here?”

“You heard your father. He wants you riding shotgun on a collection.”

Pulling a playing card from the inside pocket of my jacket, I twirl it between my fingers . “I already told him I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“And how did that work out for you?” he mutters. I say nothing because the asshole has a point. “Besides, you agreed to this.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“We all have a choice. It’s how far we’re willing to go and how much we’re willing to sacrifice that determine the outcome.”

I huff out a dry laugh. “Now who sounds like a suicidal Hallmark card?”

“Don’t push me, Gianni. It’s not in your best interest.”

“None of this is ‘in my best interest.’ If you think differently, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“No,” he says, his stilted tone wound tight enough to snap. “It’s you who hasn’t been paying attention. How many fists have to hit your head before you see the hand in front of your face?”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

He rises to his feet and buttons his jacket, the unguarded look on his face hardening.

“It means meet me downstairs in five minutes. I’m driving you home to shower and lose the attitude.

” He eyes my disheveled attire. “And put on a suit. You’re Gianni Marchesi, for Christ’s sake. Start acting like it.”

“I’m not putting on a fucking suit.” I stare at him, trying to drill through that plastic coating to find a motive, only to hit a layer of steel.

“I’ve already told you I’m not…” The card stills between my fingers as my phone screen flares to life.

About damn time. I drag the device off the table and scrub my hand across my forehead as I scan the text.

My apologies. In the future, I’ll get shot in a timelier manner.

Nearly met his maker and still a dick. It’s irritating how much I appreciate that now.

Before I can respond, a second message appears.

Meet me at Louie’s Deli at five p.m.

A quick glance at the time has me biting back a curse. That’s cutting it close. I don’t know how I’m going to connect all these damn dots with Anton watching me like a scorned wife.

Unfortunately, the best shot I have is to fall in line.

This shit is really getting old.

“Gianni.” I glance up to find Anton snapping his fingers in my face. “I’m talking to you.”

“Yeah. Suit. Got it.” I shove my phone in my pocket. “So are you going to tell me the name of this place, or do I find out as the sign melts off the frontage?”

“ Cucciola ’s Trattoria in Hackensack, a family operation on the verge of bankruptcy.”

Unsurprising. The only small business thriving in New Jersey are the ones my father has by the balls. Those who cling to their principles get broken bones and an insurance claim.

“Glad to see some things never change.”

“Only some things,” he murmurs. What kind of thinly veiled bullshit is that? Before I can call him on it, he starts toward the doorway.

“He betrayed me first, you know.” Which, by La Cosa Nostra standards, doesn’t validate shit, not that I care. My father earned his first strike with me when I was thirteen and his second with Victoria. I took action to prevent a third, yet here we are.

Pausing, he turns and cuts me a hard glare. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

There’s a sharp edge to his voice, an emphasis and urgency that feels off.

I don’t like it, so I keep my eyes on him, watching every move he makes.

That’s why, when he dips his hand inside his jacket pocket, mine curls into a fist. I’d prefer to not fight a man who’s been more of a father to me than my own, but if it comes down to it, I won’t hesitate to break his neck.

Just as I go to swing, his hand reappears holding my gun, not the Providence PD-issued one he took from me, but my gun, a custom piece worth eighteen-thousand dollars. A spade-engraved, one-of-a-kind he gave to me on my twenty-first birthday.

The day his godson became a made man.

“How far are you willing to go to determine the outcome, Gianni?” he repeats as he places it on the table next to my phone before walking out the door.

Hackensack, New Jersey

Sliding my sunglasses down with my index finger, I stare at the rundown building across the street. “Nice place. I always like my meals with a complimentary side of Hep C.”

Cucciola’s Trattoria is more than a health code violation. It’s a monument to the dangers of virtue signaling. It’s obvious Marcello is letting this place rot to send a message. The busted windows and rotted wood frame have tragic morality written all over them.

Anton flings off his seat belt, side-eyeing me as he swings his door open. “How that doctor put up with you for eight weeks, I’ll never know.”

Because I gave her no choice.

Pushing my sunglasses back up my nose, I step out of the car and straighten my suit jacket before crossing the street.

We walk inside to a drastic improvement.

There’s no crystal or polished silver, but there are white linen tablecloths, and the floor is so clean you could eat off it.

Which might be necessary after the bank liquidates all his assets.

“ Amico mio . I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

I slip my hand under my jacket as a man with a half-circle of black hair strides out from two swinging doors.

Anton’s gaze shifts to where my hand rests on my concealed gun and discreetly shakes his head. “Plans changed.”

“I see.” The man turns a sharp eye to me. “That appears to be happening a lot lately.”

I tuck my sunglasses in my pocket. “I don’t remember hearing him ask for your opinion.”

“Gianni Marchesi,” he says, his words dripping with venom. “In the flesh.”

“Not here,” Anton hisses between clenched teeth.

I arch an eyebrow. “And you are…?”

“Someone who knows all about you and your piece-of-shit father.”

Strange way to announce a death wish, but whatever. While I have no interest in defending my father’s name, I won’t tolerate disrespect. “Obviously, not, or you wouldn’t have taken that tone with me. I suggest you fix it.”

The three of us remain locked in a silent standoff until the man mutters something under his breath and releases a heavy exhale. “The name’s Sartorre, and I know why you’re here, so let’s just get this over with.” Giving Anton a curt nod, he starts toward the back of the restaurant.

I grab Anton’s arm. “What the hell’s going on?”

He glances over his shoulder and huffs out a heavy breath. “Trust me, Gianni … please.”

The “please” gets me. Made men don’t beg for shit, so if that word ever passes their lips, they’re not fucking around. But I’m also not a suicidal idiot, so I unclip my holster before following him down a hallway where Sartorre opens a door to a small private room.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing inside. “I’ll bring the bread and wine.”

I watch him disappear through the swinging doors, then turn to Anton, my fuse nearly burnt to a crisp. “You have thirty seconds to…”

The rest of my inquisition trails off when Sartorre strides back in, a tray balanced in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other. We sit in silence as he presents a basket of bread along with two glasses. He goes to uncork the wine when Anton stops him.

“I can take it from here, Bobby.”

Bobby. It’s not a common practice to be on a first-name basis with a man you're about to put out of business. I clench my fists as Sartorre nods back, another cryptic look passing between them before he disappears through the doors again.

Anton’s movements are stiff as he uncorks the wine, filling both glasses before pushing one across the table. I’m curious what's behind the big production, so I humor him and pick it up.

“I take it Sartorre is a friend of yours.”

“More like an acquaintance with a mutual goal.”

“What kind of goal?”

“Revenge. Retribution. Restitution.” The muscles in his neck tighten. “Doesn’t Bobby’s hostility strike you as odd, as if you’d wronged him personally?”

My mind spins in so many directions I almost miss the obvious answer. “ Cucciola means little puppy in Italian. It’s what Victoria’s mother used to call her.” My vision becomes a kaleidoscope of rage. “Her mother’s maiden name is Sartorre. This is her uncle’s place.”