Page 26 of Tortured Hearts (Marchesi Empire #2)

GIANNI

H enry’s words explode inside my head like a grenade.

“That was Dice,” I say, my voice dangerously calm.

His bloody smile turns vicious. “Was it? Then why do I know Dr. Brennan was attacked on the fourth level of the parking garage, or that she was wearing spandex leggings and a lime green shirt?”

“Impossible.” Ignoring Anton’s stiffening frame, I stalk toward Henry, a volcano of barely restrained rage. “Becca ripped her attacker’s mask. She saw his…” My control slips as I stare at the matted strands hanging in his eyes.

Red hair.

Time reverses, and I’m back in Becca’s office, the blackened heart she’d resurrected bleeding at the sight of her battered face and vacant eyes.

“Tell me what this man looked like. ”

“I don’t remember.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Even if I do, what does it matter? Who’s going to believe me?”

“I will.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Then pretty soon you’ll have me convinced there was no attack. That these bruises aren’t real. That I didn’t see his red hair, or that damn rose and dagger tattoo on his chest.”

I’d heard “red hair” and took my vengeance on the only man I thought capable of such a violent attack—the Irishman from the docks, a Rogue message meant for me and the chief. Only the Rogue doesn’t exist anymore. The only thing operating in Providence is an extension of my father’s greed.

“You’re lying,” I accuse, but my conviction in those words is weakening faster than Henry’s pulse. “Becca saw a rose and dagger tattoo on her attacker’s chest.”

“Yeah,” he taunts. “She did.”

The warehouse falls deathly silent as I lower my gaze from Henry’s face to the tattoo peeking from the open two buttons of his shirt. The moment I jerk the material to the side, my blood turns cold.

A small rose and dagger.

“Fuck.” It’s a sound so low even I barely hear it.

But Henry is waiting for it. “You killed the wrong man, Gianni. You wield that cleaver like some kind of dark savior, but the truth is it’s your fault your girl was almost burnt to a crisp. You take from the Irish; they take from you.”

The revelation drives a rusted knife through my chest. But I can’t think about any of this now. If I do, I’m going to turn into something very inhuman and fail her twice.

I grip his throat again. “Why?”

“Did I do it?” he finishes with a wheeze. “You said it yourself, ‘A true mafioso proves his worth in blood.’”

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t risk everything you have for clout.” My fury mounts as past and present rush toward each other on a collision course doused in kerosene. But it’s Henry, himself, who lights the final match.

“That clout included specifically mentioning you, Johnny . Don’t believe me? Ask her what I said when she begged me to let her go. Then you’ll know I almost did you a favor.”

The match hits the ground, and everything goes up in flames.

Holding Henry’s stare, I release his throat and give the meat cleaver a spin. “Hand.”

Behind me, Anton clears his throat. “Gianni…”

“Hand,” I snap. This isn’t a debate. This is penance, and I’m the fucking executioner.

Stepping forward, he grabs Henry’s wrist and slams it against the wall.

Now it’s my turn to smile. “You’re in a talkative mood today, Saddler. Anything else you’d like to get off your chest?” I arch an eyebrow. “Well, what’s left of it, anyway.”

The more he jerks and twists, the tighter Anton’s grip becomes. I wait it out, watching with anticipation I haven’t felt since turning that Irishman’s house into a beachside bonfire.

Eventually, his burst of fear-infused adrenaline drains. “That woman is going to be your downfall, Gianni,” he slurs, hanging his head in defeat.

“I told you not to touch her that day at the docks. You should’ve kept your hands to yourself.

Now they’re mine.” Drawing my arm back, I swing the cleaver, smiling as the blade slices through flesh and bone.

Henry lets out a tortured scream that rattles my eardrums. It lasts only a few seconds.

Once his hand lands by his feet, he’s too busy retching to make any other noise.

But I’m just getting started. As my head fills with thoughts of Becca lying in that parking garage, the man in me disappears, leaving the Devil and demons to battle for his soul.

“This is for touching her the first fucking time.”

Swing … His arm severs.

“This is for delivering her to my fucking father.

Swing … His chest opens.

“This is for marking her fucking skin.”

Swing … His guts spill.

“This is for touching what’s fucking mine.”

Swing … His skull splits.

“That’s enough,” I hear behind me. “He’s gone.”

I look down at my hands and forearms. There’s no skin anymore—only dark, dripping red.

Red for her.

Red for me.

Red for us.

I step back, the cleaver hitting the concrete with a heavy clang. “Get this piece of shit out of my sight.” Turning, I climb the stairs one bloody footprint at a time.

There’s another marshal waiting upstairs. One final test he must pass. If he doesn’t, Anton will remove two bodies from this place.

When I open the door, Owen is sitting hunched forward on a metal chair with his forearms resting on his thighs, and a soiled cloth in his hands.

I don’t have to ask to know what’s inside his head.

I recognize freshly formed demons when I see them.

I wish I could tell him the roaring gets easier, but it’d be a lie.

With time, he’ll learn to cage them … until men like Henry Saddler bend their bars and set them free.

At that point, all he can do is wait out th e carnage.

He doesn’t look up when I close the door behind me. Just to be sadistic, I turn the lock and watch his face as the telltale click pings around the tiny room.

Nothing.

He still stares at that bloody cloth like it’s going to bite him.

I walk to the small basin sink and turn the faucet on with my elbow.

Orange-tinged water flows out with a rattled groan, courtesy of rusted pipes and neglected maintenance.

I don’t care. It could be magical spring water shooting out of a leprechaun’s ass so long as it sends what’s left of Saddler down the drain where he belongs.

After splashing a few handfuls of water on my face, I grab a hand towel and dry off while unbuttoning my stained shirt. Owen was initiated in blood tonight, but I bathed in it.

All in the name of oath and debt.

And the deadliest four-letter word of all.

Fuck, I can’t think about that right now.

I need a drink. Dropping to my haunches, I open a hidden drawer next to the sink and pull out two clean black T-shirts, a plastic lawn bag, and a bottle of bourbon.

With practiced precision, I hold the bottle and bag in one hand while peeling off my soiled shirt with the other.

“Lesson one,” I say, shoving my shirt in the bag before tossing it at his feet. “Never leave evidence behind.” Instead of elaborating, I pull one of the clean T-shirts over my head, then use my teeth to unscrew the cap off the bottle and chug.

Owen’s gaze lifts, finally breaking that catatonic stare. “You plan on sharing that?”

I rest the open bottle on my lower lip and smile. “No.”

“Dick.”

“Lesson two: never make a Marchesi repeat himself. It’s not a good look for a turncoat.”

“I’m not a…” he starts, biting back the last word when I arch an eyebrow at the bloody cloth still clenched in his hands. “Goddamn it.” The curse is low and full of contempt—for me, for Henry, for the situation, but mainly for himself—for not seeing the signs before everything spun out of control.

I know. I’ve been there.

Shit, I’m there now.

Slowly and cautiously, he follows my lead, unbuttoning his blood-splattered shirt, then unclipping his prized bulletproof vest. Stuffing them both in the garbage bag along with the cloth, he kicks it toward me, then meets my eye and holds out his hand.

The corner of my mouth twitches. He’s a quick learner. That bodes well for both of us. I toss him the remaining T-shirt, waiting until he jerks it over his head before passing him the bottle. I’m impressed and a little concerned when he downs a quarter of it in one breath.

I need his head clear, not pickled.

Owen tips his chin at the label as I pry the bourbon out of his hands. “Maker’s Mark Gold Label VIP. You Italians don’t fuck around after a slaughter.”

We Italians don’t fuck around ever. Which brings me to the reason I’m here.

I drag the only remaining chair across the floor and set it in front of him.

Taking a seat, I tip the bottle back again, welcoming the burn as he watches in silence.

When it’s obvious I’m not passing it back, he slumps back in his chair.

“So, what is this place?”

“An old meat packing plant. My friend, Paulie, owns some businesses I have exclusive access to.” I swing the bottle around the decrepit room. “This one hasn’t been operational for over a decade as far as the state of New Jersey is concerned.”

After a few intentional moments of said silence, he drags his palm down his face with a heavy sigh, stilling as he takes in my dress slacks and designer shoes. “You look … different.”

“And you look relatively good for a dead man.”

He exhales roughly. “I guess getting shot three times makes me a real gangster, huh?”

“No, because it’s not 1928. Besides, none of those bullets actually hit you.”

“What do you call this?” He pulls the collar of his T-shirt to the side and points to… Well, I’m not sure what the hell he’s pointing to. There’s a dot on his shoulder that could be a bruise, maybe a mole. Honestly, he may want to get that checked out.

I shrug. “Bad aim?”

“Fuck you.” He releases his collar with a scowl. “You know, Henry used to ridicule me for wearing a bulletproof vest. He said I was being paranoid. Looks like the joke was on him.”

“People are chameleons, Holmes. They adapt to fit their surroundings.”

“Henley.” When I say nothing, he studies his hands again. “My last name isn’t Holmes. It’s Henley. You weren’t the only one operating under an alias.”