Defeat lines Vito’s leathery face as his shoulders slump. “Wait, please. Let’s be reasonable.”
I take a step back, pushing the crowd with me. “I am being reasonable.” With a jerk of my chin toward his chest, Vito glances down and sighs. Five gleaming red dots appear there, and I tell him, “See, I’m reasonable. I’ll make this quick.” I clear my throat and announce, “Anyone not directly related to the Gambino family should make a move. This is not going to be pretty.”
With a quick glance to the surrounding windows, I spot my men. All carrying semi-auto machine guns, thanks to my pal Titus, Marcos Demitriou, Titus Okoye, Lars Odegard, Luka Pavlovic and Elias Munoz all wait solemnly for my signal.
I may have called in every marker I was owed to get them here, but as my eyes meet theirs, I incline my head in appreciation.
I take a moment to lower my head and rub at my eyes.
I’m so very tired of this life.
As men file out, they offer their condolences to Eduardo Castillo over the deaths of his children. The Gambino soldiers are cornered by the Castillo’s like stray sheep, and at the look of their frightened faces, a sick sense of satisfaction radiates through me.
Finally, in the quiet of the midafternoon, we paint the Gambino house red.
Gio fits himself behind me, his clumsy hands gripping my waist tight enough to bruise, and when he presses his body into mine, I fight the shudder of disgust that wishes to be freed.
He wants me to scream for him. He craves my fear.
But he doesn’t know me anymore. I’m different now. I’m no longer the same person I was yesterday.
The man sitting in the corner of the room, watching Gio do his thing, chuckles, laughing at my lack of dignity, and I hate him. But that chuckle fuels something inside of me. It’s with great strength that I burrow deep into my mind and hide there, in my happy place.
A mere moment into the assault, his phone begins to ring, and with a harsh sigh, he slides out of me, moving over to the wooden table to answer it.
I don’t know what is being said, but whatever the news, blind rage takes hold of him. I hear the cell crash onto the floor. He cries out, clutching the sides of his head, his chest heaving.
My heart stutters a single moment before it calms. Gio may not know me anymore, but I still know him. Whatever has hurt him, it’s going to be me to take the punishment.
I know it’s coming and mentally prepare for it. I accept it.
With bright, eager eyes, he approaches the place I’m tied, naked and spread eagle, to a poorly made Saint Andrew’s cross that splinters my ankles and wrists. He pants as he rushes to stand in front of me. I can’t lift my heavy head at the moment, so my gaze falls on his fast deflating erection.
Panting, he utters, “They’re all dead. All of them. They’re fucking dead.” His voice laden with fury, he grabs me by the throat and squeezes as he hisses out, “What the fuck does he see in you?”
The man in the corner of the room watches Gio choke me, the hand at my neck trembling with rage, and his eyes light in soundless excitement. He reaches down to grasp his crotch, and I just know this scene is turning him on.
I see that man and he sees me. At my unblinking stare, he blows me a kiss from across the room, and it shoots a hole into me, gaping and raw.
I’m so very tired of this life.
All I want to do is sleep. Sleep for an eternity.
Gio grips my neck harder, and I don’t bother with the struggle my mind insists upon. What’s the point? I can’t win. Not now. Not ever.
With my air supply cut short, it’s with great pleasure that I close my eyes. I close my eyes and find sleep. But before I do, I look into the cold, emotionless eyes of Maxim Nikulin.
I sit on the large, leather-like throne and warm myself in front of the roaring fire at the hearth. I do this, and I wait.
When Black asked me where I was going, I told him I was going for a walk. I didn’t tell him where, because from our previous night’s stakeout, something told me he would’ve had a shit fit had he known my current whereabouts.
An hour passes, then another, and as I fight an irritated sigh, I decide standing and stretching my legs will help stop me from falling asleep. My arms come up high, over my head, in a stretch that pulls the plain black long-sleeved tee up, uncovering my stomach. My arms fall to my sides, and I shake my head in restlessness.
It’s risky being where I am, in the den of a man who is a legend in his hometown. Not just that, it’s also disrespectful to intrude on personal space as I am right now. Lucky for me, I never cared much about the whole respect thing.
So many people demand respect when they’ve done nothing to earn it.
I look around the impressive room, washed in firelight, and take in the screaming wealth. Persian rug on the floor, a Picasso on the wall, some of the finest whiskey known to man sitting pretty in crystal decanters that would likely cost a regular Joe’s yearly salary.
I’m tired and thinking of leaving, when the door opens and in he comes.
I’m sure he’s going to try to shoot me. However, I’m packing, and if he tries to off me, I wouldn’t hold back in gifting him a hole in his shoulder.
It’s not exactly how I imagined meeting my brother-in-law, but I guess it would have to do.
It only takes Evander MacDiarmid a moment to realize he’s not alone, and just before he reaches his desk, he turns slowly to face me sans weapon.
I’m almost impressed.
Almost.
Sure is a confident fucker.
Dressed in a light gray suit, with a white shirt and gunmetal gray tie, and Italian leather dress shoes, he’s a full head taller than me with a mop of brown hair slicked back, curling behind his ears. His hazel eyes piercing, his eyes wash over my features, and he relaxes, leaning back against his monstrous desk, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning. His heavy Scottish accent isn’t something I expec
ted. “You’re a ballsy fuck, aren’t ya?”
Slipping my hands into the pockets of my black sweats, my shoulders jump in a careless shrug. “So I’ve been told.”
He lets out a soft chuckle before pushing off his desk and moving toward the bar. He turns back and asks, “Drink?” I jerk my chin in affirmative, but I am watchful and untrusting. He shrugs off his jacket before throwing it onto a chair. He pours two glasses, setting them down on his desk, then walks to the office door, opens it, and barks, “Fuck off,” to the soldier he has posted there before slamming the heavy wooden door again.
Evander hands me a glass, and I gaze at him, watching closely as he takes the first sip before I lift the glass to my lips and taste.
Yeah, I’m paranoid. But that paranoia has served me well over the years. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to poison me.
“Oh, man,” escapes me without thought. It’s been so long since I had good whiskey.
His grin widens then he takes a mouthful, closing his eyes, savoring the taste. He swallows then smacks his lips together. “One thing the Scots do well, mate. Scotch whiskey. You cannae get better.” He holds his glass high, assessing the color. “MacAllan. ’72. Oh aye, it costs a pretty penny, but I’d rather swallow my own piss than drink some off-the-shelf shite.” He lowers his glass then peers over at me through narrowed brows. “Mandy,” he says, “told me you weren’t dead, she did. I didn’t believe her. Thought it was wishful thinking on her part. I know she wanted to meet ya.”
Okay, then. Here we go. “You know who I am.” Not a question.
He raises his hands in the air, eyes wide. “Only by chance, I assure you. Your da asked me to track you down for him when you moved to Australia to follow that lass a’yours. I got sources all over, see? His reach only goes so far as ‘merica.” He sips again. “Found you’d taken a bullet. Died.” Evander shakes his head. “Never seen my Mandy so blue. She couldn’t believe it, and when she got your autopsy report, her happiness came back in spades. Absolutely convinced you weren’t dead.” He tilts his head. “Gotta hand it to her. She’s a bit like Zep like that. Once they get something in their heads, forget about it. Nothing you say can change their minds.”