The room is small, probably meant to be a bedroom, but it’s set up as an office with a thick leather armchair near the window and a heavy walnut desk to our left. Lou Luciani is sitting in the armchair, an automatic rifle lying across his lap. Bianca start sobbing and choking out apologies to her father. I lean around my partner, aiming carefully at the man sitting in the chair. While his eyes are on his daughter, I squeeze the trigger.
The bullet rips into his thick torso, and he curses savagely.
“Daddy,” Bianca screams, flailing in Diavolo’s arms.
“Shut the fuck up and stop squirming unless you want my finger to slip on the trigger,” Diavolo says, squeezing her until she whimpers.
“She had nothin’ to do with it,” Luciani says, his voice thick with a Jersey accent and edged with panic. “Let her go and I’ll put the gun down. See?”
He raises both hands, leaving the gun in his lap.
“You think we fucking trust you?” I ask, cradling the gun in my palm, keeping one finger on the trigger and the barrel aimed at his face as I stride across the room.
“Don’t kill him yet,” Il Diavolo says behind me.
Right. Dead men don’t talk.
“How’d you know where we’d be that day?” I ask, pressing the gun to Luciani’s temple.
He lunges out of the chair, his arms clamping around my torso as he tackles me to the floor. My finger convulses on the trigger, sending a bullet into the ceiling when I hit the floor, the air knocked from my lungs by the fat man. I bring the butt of the gun down on his temple, and he slumps on top of me, groaning. I heave him off and frisk him quickly, tossing his pistol into the corner and kicking the rifle away.
“Don’t kill me,” he wheezes when I roll him onto his back and press the muzzle of my gun to the underside of his chin. I grab his tie, pulling his face up. Blood is coursing down his face from where I struck him, and his eyes are small and teary as they roll around in his head.
Even the most powerful men are reduced to nothing in a moment like this, so much like the ones I see every day with Little Al. Lou Luciani may be a sneaky bastard, and he may have tried to kill me, but at least he loves his daughter. So much so that he’s giving up his life for hers, letting us walk in on him. He must know it’s over. He may have executed a sloppy ambush in broad daylight, but he’s not stupid, and he’s not heartless. There are worse people in the world, at least.
“Answer the fucking question,” I demand.
“I’m no rat,” he spits back at me, his lips coated with saliva and trembling as he tries to get the words out.
Il Diavolo spins Bianca and pushes her face down on the walnut desk, yanking up her skirt and pushing the muzzle of his gun against her panties. “Answer the fucking question, or we’ll know your daughter is the rat,” he barks.
Bianca screams out a sob, her terror palpable as she writhes on the desk, begging for mercy.
“Don’t touch my daughter, you sick son of a bitch,” Lou yells, bucking under me.
Il Diavolo pulls aside her underwear and rubs the tip of the silencer against her entrance, his other hand flat against her back, pinning her down. “Oh, but I bet she’s never been touched,” he taunts. “It’s such a shame to waste good virgin pussy.”
“Is that really necessary?” I growl, glaring over at him while I wrestle to keep Luciani down. If I thought I could let go of Lou without him going for his guns, I’d take down the devil himself. But if I did that, Lou would kill me, and Eliza would be left a widow, and that’s one thing I promised I’d never do. I could kill Lou and go after Il Diavolo, but then I’d never find out who tipped him off, and the blame will fall on Bianca whether she’s guilty or not.
Besides all that, I don’t even want to think what this guy will do to me if I try to take him down and fail. And even if I succeed, if anyone figures out I’m responsible, there’s no question about leaving Eliza a widow then. If I killed one of our own men, Al’s inner circle no less, to protect an enemy who could be responsible for the attempt on Al’s life…
I force myself to hold onto Luciani’s throat, my fingers digging in while I kneel on his chest, the gun still shoved against his throat. This asshole needs to talk, and fast.
“Please,” Bianca sobs. “I didn’t tell anyone anything.”
Il Diavolo grins at Luciani, who’s going nuts in my hold, and forces the tip of the silencer into Bianca’s hole. “You got one more chance to talk, or I’m going to shoot and then fuck this tight little cunt until she bleeds to death.”
I ram the gun into Luciani’s jugular. “You’re going to die anyway,” I snap. “If you love your daughter, you better talk right fucking now.”
“It was Al,” he howls, his voice high with panic as he tries to rise, to go to his daughter. “Little Al De Luca. He tipped me off.”
I pull the trigger and jump up, grabbing Il Diavolo and shoving him. He grins at me and slides the tip of the silencer out of Bianca, who is sobbing uncontrollably on the desk.
“Works like a charm,” he says, wiping the gun on his pants. “Too bad he talked. I wouldn’t mind a few minutes inside that pussy. She’s tight.”
I pull Bianca to her feet, and she collapses into my arms, clinging to me like I’m some kind of savior, her body convulsing with sobs. “We’d better go find Uncle Al,” I say.
“Bring her along,” Il Diavolo says, gesturing lazily with his gun for me to follow as he heads for the door. “To the victor go the spoils, right?”