Page 24 of Tortured Hearts (Marchesi Empire #2)

GIANNI

I walk in darkness to the delivery entrance of the dilapidated two-story building. Contrary to Anton’s “exterior versus interior” cliché, the Chop House isn’t a smokescreen. It’s simply a shithole that should've been condemned years ago.

Then again, line the right palms and eyes will turn.

The rusted door groans as I swing it open. Instead of rushing inside, I move in silence, letting adrenaline fuel my bloodlust. Once the coppery perfume hits my nose, I smile.

Anton is standing next to the guest of honor, his arms stained red. As usual, there’s not a hint of expression on his face. If it weren’t for the dripping blade in his hand, I wouldn’t be able to tell if he was about to commit murder or make a sandwich.

I stop and tilt my head. Henry hangs limply against the wall, his arms chained to the beam above his head. I take a moment to admire Anton’s savage artistry. He’s carved the word infame deep into his forehead. Impressive work for such a short amount of time…

And messy. Head wounds bleed like a motherfucker.

“Is he alive?”

Anton shrugs. “For now.”

I slap our guest’s cheek. “Wake up, Henry. We’re going to play a game.”

He lifts his head, his eyes widening. “Gianni? What the fuck?”

I’m so glad he asked.

I unbutton my cuffs and roll up my sleeves. “‘ The fuck ’ is that I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer them.”

“You call that a game?”

“In here we do.” I gesture around the empty warehouse.

“Welcome to The Chop House, where there’s only one rule— mine .

” Stepping closer, I smile darkly. “So if I think you’re lying, you lose a body part.

We’ll start with something simple like your fingers.

Keep lying, and I’ll cut off a more important and”—I lower my gaze to where he’s pissed himself already—“apparently smaller appendage. Are we clear?”

Most men cry and beg by this point. Clearly, I’ve underestimated him.

“Marcello will destroy you for this,” he says, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth from what I now see are a series of full-throttle punches. “I’m part of his inner circle.”

“Think so?”

“I’ve proven my loyalty. I’m the one who sent his son crawling to his own funeral.”

Anton shoots me a pointed look. Even with anger boiling in my veins, I can read his unspoken warning. “Let him dig his own grave.”

Although I want to punch this asshole’s ticket to Hell now, I know he’s right. The more information we get, the higher our hand will be when it’s time to reveal it.

“Well then, Starling—Saddler—whatever the hell you’re calling yourself these days…

Consider this a baptism by blood.” I extend my palm, never breaking eye contact.

Within seconds it’s filled with the heavy grip of my favorite meat cleaver.

“You want to be part of this world…? Then know that a true mafioso doesn’t hide his sins like a little bitch.

Inside these walls, he stands by his actions.

” I give the cleaver a practiced spin. “Then again, I told my father you don’t have what it takes. ”

“Fuck you.”

“The manners on this one…” Holding the blade steady, I side-eye Anton . “What do you think?”

“I think you should’ve let me put a bullet in his head an hour ago,” he mutters, moving beside me. Glaring, he backhands Henry, sending his cheek crashing into the wall. “Show some fucking respect. He’s the heir to the throne, not some errand boy, you coglione .”

Henry scowls, his head wobbling from the hit.

I click my tongue. “That sounded like it hurt.”

He spits blood at my feet. “You’re a fool if you think Marcello is going to let you live.”

I tap the flat end of the cleaver against his temple. “And you’re a bigger one if you think my father really plans to end his own bloodline,” I taunt, enjoying his rapid blinks and bobbing Adam’s apple. “You think he isn’t feeding you a load of half-truths and empty promises?”

“I’ve proven my loyalty,” he repeats, but his confidence has deflated. “I’m protected.”

“You should ask yourself something, Saddler…” I swing the cleaver toward Anton . “This is my father’s underboss. Do you think he’d be here if it weren’t under his boss’s directive?”

Once the words seep below the surface, his head flops toward a smirking Anton.

God, I love power.

“Then why do I see doubt in your eyes?” he retaliates, cutting me a sharp side-eye.

“Oh, that’s right, because the last man you trusted is dead.

Such a shame about Owen. Fortunately, I don’t make such careless mistakes.

” I let him piss out all that delusional pride as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

“It’s too bad I was in such a hurry. I would’ve enjoyed telling him how fucking stupid he was before killing him. ”

When my phone buzzes again, I decide I’ve heard enough. Stepping over the puddle of blood at my feet, I give his cheek a hearty slap. “Then today is your lucky day.”

He clenches his teeth and gives me a searing glare. “What?”

“You wanted to tell your partner how ‘fucking stupid he was’, right? Well, I’m nothing, if not accommodating.” I nod to Anton, who walks dutifully toward the back door. The moment he opens it all the air expels from Henry’s lungs.

I’ll give the man credit. His timing is impeccable.

Owen Holmes still has that same dirty blond hair, but instead of every strand being in place, it’s chaotic as hell, twisting so many opposite ways it may have more personalities than I do. His usual, clean-shaven face looks like he woke up a half-hour ago in a back alley after a three-day bender.

I always joked that Owen was so bland he could’ve come straight off the justice assembly line. That guy is long gone. In his place stands a man wronged by the system he believed in with every strait-laced bone in his body. There’s a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

He stares at me before cutting his gaze toward Anton.

Then the real show begins.

A cold expression crosses his face seconds before he explodes across the room in a blaze of fury.

“ You two-faced piece of shit.” He’s at least a foot away when he draws his fist back, a move giving him impressive momentum when he drives it into Henry’s mouth.

He doesn’t get the chance to garble out a response before Owen lands two more punches, sending a couple of teeth skidding across the floor.

I’m enjoying the show so much I let him get in one more jab to the nose before motioning for Anton to break it up. A decision “new Owen” doesn’t appreciate.

“Get your hands off me!” he roars, twisting violently as Anton pins his arms behind his back and drags him away. Once immobile, he shoots me a lethal glare. “What the hell is this?”

I shrug. “Figured you two had some unfinished business.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Henry groans, slumping against the wall. “I shot you.”

Rage vibrates off Owen as he breaks free from Anton’s hold and rips open his gray button-down shirt to reveal a bulletproof vest. “Always go for the head, asshole.”

I saunter forward, shaking my head. “Henry, you pulled the trigger on a fellow marshal and didn’t stick around to ensure he’d sprung a leak?” I cast a sideways glance at Owen. “I wasn’t even there, and I have second-hand embarrassment.”

“He’s a wannabe gangster, not a cautious one,” Owen mutters.

Henry flashes a toothless, bloody sneer. “At least this ‘wannabe’ chose the winning team.”

I toss the cleaver to Anton and let my fist respond by shoving his spleen halfway up his throat. “Read the room, Saddler. He’s not the one hanging like a side of beef.” As he spins and sputters, I retrieve an ice pick from a side table and hand it to Owen. “Your show, Marshal.”

He stares at it, unmoving. I’m not surprised. While anger drives a man to cross a lot of lines, mutilation and murder are two most won’t cross. They change a man forever.

However, in my world, they test trust and show loyalty, and that’s why there was a “change of plans.” This isn’t about letting Owen release pent-up anger at the man who tried to kill him.

It’s a test of his true allegiance. He’s a jaded U.S.

Marshal who desperately wants to believe in a system that failed him at every turn.

What he does in the next fifteen seconds will decide his fate.

“The bastard shot you and left you for dead,” I say, feeding his rage. “He lied to your face every day for four months. Are you going to stand here and uphold laws that betrayed you, or are you going to write your own?”

The two sides of Owen Holmes separate and snap as he drives the ice pick into his ex-partner with more brutality than men born into this life.

I watch with pride as Henry screams and begs for mercy.

It’s only when Owen draws his fist back and aims for his temple that I lift my hand.

A beat later, Anton rips the ice pick from his hand.

He’s proven his loyalty, but Henry’s last breath belongs to me.

“Go upstairs.” I nod toward the back door. “There’s a room off to the right. Wash that shit off and wait for me.”

“The hell I will!”

I clamp my hand firmly on his shoulder. “This isn’t Providence. I’m in control here, and I’m telling you to walk away. Your conscience isn’t ready for that.”

He slides a dark gaze to Henry. “Burn in Hell.” There’s a respectful hatred in his glare as he storms past me, boldly shoulder-checking Anton before stomping up the stairs and slamming the door behind him.

I turn to Henry. “Well, that was entertaining.”

“You two are f-fucking insane,” Henry rasps, his chains rattling as he starts to bleed out.

“Now, let’s try this again.” Retrieving the cleaver, I wave it at him. “Claim your actions, Marshal, while you still have lips.”

Watching him break is like hearing an old song and still knowing all the words. For four months, I paraded Johnny Malone around like a goddamn show pony. But this is who I am—who I’ll always be. A killer draws strength from the blood of his enemies.