Page 17 of Tortured Hearts (Marchesi Empire #2)

GIANNI

Staten Island, New York

T here’s a strained silence inside the Maserati as I pull beside a run-down apartment building in a “grab-your-mace” type of neighborhood in Staten Island. “Are you sure this is the right address?”

Anton slams a full cartridge of bullets into his gun. “You, of all people, should know not to buy into a facade.”

That hits a little too close to home.

Securing my gun, I open the door and step out of the car. Anton follows without argument. The moment we enter the building, we’re greeted by the Authority’s bouncer, a huge man with the personality of curdled milk.

Anton dips his chin. “Sergio.”

“Anton,” the guard acknowledges back. I glance between them, close to putting a bullet in both when Hell’s gatekeeper nods at our waists. “Hand over the weapons, and they’ll be returned when you’re dismissed.”

I think the fuck not.

“I’m not walking in there without?—”

“Give him the gun, Gianni.” Anton’s movements are slow and robotic as he unclips his holster and places his Magnum in the guard’s waiting hand.

I gape at him. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m in Staten Island about to have an unsanctioned meeting with the Authority. What do you think?” he snaps. “Now, hurry. Your girl doesn’t have time for this.”

While walking into a room full of mafia bosses unarmed goes against every instinct, he’s right.

So I force myself to hand over my gun to the dickshit in front of me, who tucks it into his jacket and motions us forward.

Sixty steps later, he disappears through a battered white door, leaving the two of us standing weaponless on the other side.

Anton clears his throat. “Remember, don’t be a smartass.”

I glance out of the corner of my eye to find his expressionless face all but glued to the door. He’s like a bloodthirsty mannequin with his strings stretched too tight. All it’d take is one sudden move to slingshot him down all four flights of stairs.

“I’m offended,” I huff. “Name one person in a position of authority I haven’t shown due respect.”

“Your father.”

“Name two.”

“The feds.”

“Okay, name three.”

He exhales a shallow breath. “Fuck. We’re dead.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when the door opens, and Sergio reappears with a curt nod. “You may enter.”

We walk to the center of a room surrounded by dingy white walls. Other than a few chairs scattered along a twelve-foot-long conference table, it’s pathetically empty.

“So, the rat returns.”

I stare across the table where Benito Toscano, don of New York and the ruler of the Five Families, sits dead center. He’s a ruthless bastard who’d sooner slit my throat than look at me, but at least he’s a straight shooter. I respect a gun that’s aimed at my face.

I shrug. “The cannoli in Rhode Island sucked.”

Anton curses under his breath.

Toscano clasps his hands, the cufflinks at his wrists pinging against the wood. “If it were up to me, your brains would be splattered across the sidewalk. Lucky for you, your underboss and my top guard have somewhat of an inconvenient friendship.”

I slide a withering stare between Anton and Sergio, my fingers flexing at my side. These fucking pop-up alliances are irritating me. I don’t like being blindsided, especially in front of men who’d happily parade my severed head up and down the East Coast. “I’ll be sure to thank him later.”

Anton stiffens beside me while King Benito and his three idiot knights attempt to use silence as a power move. Amateurs. They should try engaging Becca in a battle of wills. That woman can whittle a man’s balls down to acorns.

“It’s been a long day.” Stepping forward, I gesture to the empty chair across the table from Toscano. “Mind if I sit?”

“Is he serious?” Carmine Damiano, don of Connecticut and the man most likely to shoot my dick off and give it to his daughter as a hood ornament, swings his toupée-capped head up and down the length of the table. “He can’t be serious.”

Toscano ignores him. “Sitting is entirely up to you, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

I wouldn’t recommend doing half the shit I’ve done in the last forty-eight hours, yet here I am.

Why stop now? Holding his gaze, I stride toward the table with all the confidence of a man who’s not about to wear a lead jacket and take a seat.

Judging by the wave of arched eyebrows, they’re probably wondering if I have a death wish.

Maybe, or maybe shitting on authority is just a God-given talent.

I nod to the half-empty bottle in the center of the table. “So what are we drinking?”

Toscano pushes a bottle of Heaven Hill 17-year-old Barrel Proof bourbon toward me while tipping his chin over my shoulder. Within seconds, Sergio slams a glass next to my hand before sliding back into the shadows.

“Cool trick.”

“Loyalty is an invaluable asset. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

I tip the bottle and fill the glass to the rim. “I didn’t come here to be insulted, Benny.”

I half expect to get shot for that one. Instead, he chuckles. “Why did you come here?”

“Why did you accept?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“Ah yes, the inconvenient friendship.” Lifting my glass, I tip it toward him. “You’re a respected guy, Benny. You speak your mind, honor your oath, and take no shit. Are you really sticking with that weak excuse?”

“Gianni…” Anton warns from behind.

The Boston boss smacks the table. “Listen here, you little shit…”

Benito raises his hand, instantly silencing him. I’ll admit, the power he wields is impressive, especially when old Boston Mario folds like a scolded puppy. “What other purpose would I have to see you, Gianni?”

“Curiosity, and the fact you’re a smart man. I had a cushy new life in Providence—a new name, new identity, permanent immunity. You know there’d have to be a damn good reason for me to give that up.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You know what they say: curiosity killed the cat.”

“Or it helps him catch a bigger rat.”

I hear feet shuffling behind me as Benito’s cool smile fades. Anton’s getting nervous, and I can’t blame him. I’m winging the shit out of this. One bad swerve down the wrong road and it’ll be over before it starts. Still, our best defense is a strong offense.

“Of course, I’m sure you’re wondering why I came to Staten Island to discuss this when I could’ve easily done it tomorrow at my father’s emergency meeting,” I continue.

There’s a muted flicker of surprise in Toscano’s narrowed gaze, his eyebrows drifting toward his gelled gray hairline.

Wait. It gets better.

Carmine’s chair flies backward, his feet hitting the floor. “ All’anima di chi t’è morto.” Turning, he glares at Toscano. “Why are we listening to this cazzate ?”

You can tell how much you’ve gotten under an Italian’s skin by the complexity of his insult. Considering the Connecticut boss just requested that I go fuck the souls of my dead family members, I’d say I drove pretty damn deep.

“Because this bullshit affects your bottom line. You’re all being played, so if I were you, I’d stop worrying about how I’ve wronged the ‘family’ and focus on pulling the much bigger knife from your back.”

That gets their attention.

“Silence.” Toscano’s sharp command mutes the room. Reclaiming control, he turns that iron stare my way, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “Explain yourself.”

Now that I have control, I pump the brakes, taking time to refill my glass and let the anticipation build. “ I’m not the worst traitor here; my father is, and unless you want this whole operation to fold like a cheap accordion, you’ll grant me permission to take him out.”

A request that’s met with the sound of three cocked guns.

However, once again, Toscano merely raises his hand, chuckling as all three trigger fingers relax. “Are you that fucking arrogant to think you can walk in here and make demands after what you’ve done?”

I shrug. “I know my father has been a thorn in the Authority’s side for years. He’s skirted that sacred line just enough to piss you off, but not enough for you to have cause to do something about it.” I hold each of their eyes. “I have cause.”

“Retaliation against you doesn’t count.”

“What about against you ?” I take a moment to soak in the shock plastered across their faces, then grip the bat and swing.

“I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of shipments being run out of Providence.

Well, its origin is buried in your own backyard.

Marcello has been overseeing those shipments for over two decades, as well as underground trade deals with Alejandro Carrera. ”

“The fucking cartel?” The Philly boss explodes.

Toscano tips his chin with a sharp side-eye. “Those are serious accusations, Gianni. Do you have proof to back them up?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Turning to Anton, I give a slight nod.

Usually, I don’t care for theatrics, but the smooth way he slides his phone from the inside of his jacket and hits send deserves an Oscar.

Within seconds, all four bosses’ phones chime, and I watch in silent satisfaction as my father’s dirty financial records flash before their eyes.

Toscano looks up from his death grip. “Where did you get these?”

Anton clears his throat. “ I stumbled onto a loose thread in Marcello’s finances. One pull unraveled another thread, and so on… Eventually, I found three shell corporations, two that were making deposits into four encrypted offshore accounts, with another funneling money in.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?”

“What would I have said? That Marcello was shifting money around in secret companies no one had access to? Is that a foreign concept to any of you?”

Nobody says shit.

Savage.

“Decrypting the accounts took time,” he continues. “By the time I identified one owner as the Providence Chief of Police and another as a dirty U.S. Marshal, it was too late. Gianni was in Rhode Island, and Marcello had set up his endgame.”

The muscles in Toscano’s neck tighten. “Start connecting some dots, Altieri.”