by Nicole Fox
It takes us ten minutes to catch up to the poor bastard. With a little coordination, my men block his vehicle from the other side, trapping him down a residential street. Houses pave the area down adjacent roads, but the one we’re on is relatively deserted.
I can see his silhouette in the driver’s seat. He’s definitely alone. I jump out of the car and saunter over to his vehicle, making sure to shoot out his tires first.
His face is stark-white when I try to pull open his door. It’s locked. “You really want me to shoot it open?” I ask him calmly.
Shaking, he unlocks the door and I open it.
“Get out here,” I tell him as my men flank me.
His arm is twisted behind his back, and even though I can’t see it, I know he’s trying to hide the gun in his hand.
“Don’t do it—”
The moment he moves to shoot, I fire first, burying a bullet right in his bicep. Idiot.
He screams, long and loud. The sound seems to travel for a mile before dissolving into the midnight silence.
“Stupid move,” I tell him as he collapses into the driver’s seat. I grab him by the collar of his shirt and hurl him out of the car. He drops to the road, his chin smacking the tar and splitting open.
He groans low, but refuses to raise his head. Using my foot, I hook it underneath one arm and roll him over onto his back. Then I step between his legs, making sure he can see my gun where it glistens in the moonlight.
“We just wanted to have a conversation,” I tell him casually. “There was no reason for all the drama.”
“What do you want?” he gasps, spitting out blood.
“Information. You’re on your way to an important meeting, am I right?”
“No,” he says, but he pales instantly. “I was… I was on my way to the hospital. My wife’s giving birth.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations to your wife then. Do you know who I am?”
“I don’t… Well, yes,” he says, deciding mid-sentence not to lie. “Kian O’Sullivan.”
“Correct. If you know my name, then you’re aware of my reputation. And I hate—I hate— liars. Do you want to know what I do to liars?”
He just stares at me with fast-receding hope.
“Are you a liar?”
“No.”
“Good,” I say with an amicable nod. “Let me ask you again then. You were on your way to a meeting?”
He trembles and gulps. “Yes.”
“Where?”
“I can’t give you that information,” he tells me as the bravado fails. “They’ll kill me.”
“But if you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you,” I point out. “And I’ll kill you much more violently.”
He shakes his head, looking from side to side as though he’s hoping a rescue party is going to bust in and save his ass.
“It’s too late anyway,” he says, stammering over his words. “I tipped them off that I was being followed. They’ll have dispersed by now.”
I grit my teeth, but I try not to let my anger show. “Okay. So there’s no meeting to get to,” I shrug. “But you do know who was going to be there, don’t you?”
“Y—yes.”
“Tell me.”
The man shakes his head, but he talks anyway. “Lombardi loyalists and… and…”
“Yes?” I coax, raising my gun a little higher to help loosen his tongue.
“Rokiades and his men.”
It’s exactly the news I was hoping not to hear. So the Greek fucker really has surfaced after all these years.
“Why now?” I ponder out loud.
“He wants his empire back.”
“Is that what he calls it?” I ask with amusement.
“He and the Lombardis are allied against a common enemy. You.”
“The Lombardis don’t have shit to offer,” I point out. “Why them?”
The man’s expression changes. But he’s still white as a sheet. Though that may just be from the blood loss. “The Lombardis have more than you think,” he says. “Lots of men were left without a leader when you killed Giorgio. They want someone to band behind.”
“Drago Lombardi doesn’t have what it takes.”
“Rokiades does.”
“They wouldn’t bow to an Irishman, but a Greek don is fine with them?” I balk. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”
He bites down on his lower lip, clearly worried that he’s talking too much. “It wouldn’t just be a Greek don.”
I frown. “What the fuck does that mean?”
He looks at me through half-narrowed eyes. He’s trying to fight back his own fear, but I can see that it’s getting the best of him. “It means they’re putting their differences aside and joining together.”
“I’ve worked that part out for myself,” I reply sourly. “I need details.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
I don’t blink. Don’t so much as hesitate. I warned the son of a bitch what would happen if he lied. He can tell what’s happening an instant before it comes. “No, no, n—!”
But the crack of his lower leg breaking beneath my boot reduces his words to a bloodcurdling scream.
I notice a window clamp shut a few feet away from the house in the corner. Which means our little operation is being noticed. We don’t have much time left.
The moment his howls subside somewhat, I lean in and look him right in the eye.
“I told you,” I sigh. “I hate liars.”
His eyes glaze over as he realizes he’s not gonna make it out of this alive.
“Now, tell me what you know,” I order him. “Or I’m going to make your last moments really fucking painful.”
He looks at me with defeated eyes.
Seems like I’ve made my point.
14
Renata
Domenico’s Pizzeria
The back room of the restaurant is dank and poorly lit. A bunch of boxes linger beneath a broken table shoved in the corner and a large cabinet filled with dirty cutlery. The chair I’m slumped in has a slightly stilted leg, so I feel like I’m about to slip right off it.
It’s been about fifteen minutes since I was pushed into this room. I’d expected the older man with the watchful eyes to follow me in here, but he’d shut the door on me and locked me inside.
One look around the room told me that there’s no getting out. There aren’t any windows, no ventilation, and I can see a strange, black fungus growing in the grout between the wall tiles.
When the lock finally turns, I get to my feet instinctively. I have no idea what to expect. I don’t even know who these men are loyal to.
My brother? It seems unlikely.
Kian? More plausible, but still unsure.
The door opens. The older man walks into the room. And he’s not alone.
He’s accompanied by another man who looks to be around the same age. Except there’s something slightly more sinister about this one. His features are heavier, darker. Definitely European, but not Italian.
“Lionel,” he says, even though his eyes are on me, “you expect me to have a conversation with her in this fucking shithole?”
Lionel, the one who first grabbed me, glances around. “Uh… this is the only private room we—”
“Clear the fucking restaurant,” he commands, adjusting the navy blazer he’s wearing over a dark, long-sleeved shirt.
Lionel bows his head and heads into the main body of the restaurant. I’m grateful he keeps the door open on his way out, if only so that I don’t have to breathe in toxic fungus spores in my last few minutes on earth. But it doesn’t really help with the invisible rope I can feel twisting around my neck.
“Who are you?” I croak.
The man in the blazer smiles, as though he’s just discovered that his new dog can talk. “You are much more beautiful in person,” he says in a low voice, thick with desire.
I take a s
tep back, making sure the chair is between the two of us. “I’ll ask again,” I say, proud of the fact that my tone doesn’t waver. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Hmm. You have fight in you,” he comments, his expression twisting into displeasure. “I’ll have to tamp that out.”
“Don Rokiades,” Lionel says, appearing at the doorway, “the restaurant has been cleared for you.”
Don Rokiades? The name is familiar. I’ve heard Drago mention it a couple of times. Now, I wish I’d paid attention to the context. But I don’t have to have paid attention to know that anyone who looks like this guy and has the title “Don” preceding his name is bad fucking news for me.
“Excellent,” Rokiades says before fixing me with a deadly glare. “Follow me.”
There’s nowhere to run. I have no choice but to follow Rokiades out into the restaurant.
It hasn’t just been cleared out; it’s been closed off, too. The doors are locked, the windows blacked out by thick, dark curtains that clash horribly with the rest of the interior. The lights are turned on, even though sunlight is still sneaking in through the sides of the curtains.
Luigi is nowhere in sight. But there are several suited men in dark sunglasses standing around the restaurant. I can’t see any weapons, but I have no doubt they’re carrying.
Rokiades sits down at a table in the center of the restaurant and gestures for me to do the same. And because I’m not stupid, I do as I’m told.
“Renata Lombardi,” he murmurs, moving my name around in his mouth.
He’s got a salt-and-pepper mustache, but the hair on his head is a deep black that’s too unnatural to be real. Blue eyes, too—but they’re nothing like Kian’s.
I don’t even know why I make the comparison. I don’t why my mind finds any and every excuse to think of the Irishman.
“How old are you, girl?”
I frown, bristling at the way he’s addressing me. “Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five,” he repeats. “I was twenty-five the first time I got married.”
I sit there silently, knowing that I’m not meant to contribute to this conversation. Men like him want an audience, not a sparring partner.
I glance around the room, counting the number of men in here with us. Apart from Lionel, there are six suits. All of them wearing sunglasses, which is hard not to find ridiculous, considering we’re indoors and it’s not even remotely bright. I’m sure it’s meant to be intimidating.
“Her name was Elena,” he continues. “A rare beauty, not unlike you. She was dark-haired as well. We were married for ten years.”
I don’t ask what happened to her. I don’t want to know.
“I divorced her after our third daughter was born,” he tells me. “Three girls? Bah! She was clearly incompetent. A waste of my fucking time.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“I remarried again a few years later. Vivica was just as beautiful, but she was fair-haired and fair-skinned. I had high hopes for the heirs we would have together. But she gave me no children. Not even girls.”
Not even girls. Like that was the least she could do.
I angle my chair as far from him as I can manage out of pure nausea. I’m still trying desperately to figure out what he wants from me. My instincts are sending off warning signs left, right, and center, but a part of my brain is still in denial.
“I got her expensive treatments, IVF, everything I could think of. When she finally did get pregnant, she lost the baby in the first trimester.”
I cringe at the cavalier way he shares the information. Completely devoid of emotion. Just reciting facts like he’s reading from a history book.
“The second time, she made it farther. Same result. And the third time, the baby was stillborn.” He pauses for a long moment before continuing. “It was a boy. A dusky-skinned boy whose name I had saved for so many decades. After I buried my boy, I buried Vivica alongside him. She had not done the one thing I asked of her. Give me a son, I told her when we married. So very simple.”
“You… you killed her?” I gasp.
“I cut her womb out first,” he says with the detached tone of a psychopath. “Her nasty, rotten womb. Then I killed her. She promised she would give me a son. She broke that promise.”
“What century do you live in?” I hiss, unable to stop myself.
He slams his fist down on the table so hard that the I jump in my seat. “You will not talk back to me!” he bellows. “I will not tolerate disobedience or disrespect. Is that understood?”
I don’t move. I just sit there, debating what’s better under the circumstances: to be brave or to be smart?
He stares at me pointedly for a moment. Then, satisfied that I’ve got the message, he keeps talking. “I took a break from wives after that. But now, I’m ready to try again. What is it that they say? Third time lucky? I feel this will be good.”
I continue to stare at him, feeling my breath coming in harder, faster. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“You know why,” he croons. “You’re to be the wife that delivers me my first son.”
I shake my head, but I don’t speak. I can’t. What is there to say? Fuck you, you monster doesn’t seem to do the man justice.
He seems unconcerned as he takes in the horrified look on my face. “Yes, you’ll do just fine. It’ll be the alliance that will bring us together. The Lombardis and the Rokiades of New York.”
“You can’t force me to marry you,” I say, finding my voice.
“You’ll find that I can.”
“My brother will never allow it.”
He laughs, loud and carefree. “Who do you think proposed the marriage in the first place?” he asks me tauntingly.
My heartbeat ticks over from frantic to full-blown panic. The sweat on my forehead trickles down, stinging my eyes, and I taste the copper tang of blood in my mouth. “Drago is the one that suggested this?” I rasp.
“We’ve been meeting over the course of the last few months,” Rokiades explains. “He was thrilled with his clever little idea. He was adamant that the marriage occur as soon as possible. I’m the one who suggested we wait.”
My brother had sold me to a monster. And for what? Power. Status. Money.
My insides are curling up, desperate to disappear. “Where is he now?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Cowering in some hole, no doubt,” he replies. “He was always deeply uninteresting. But his part in this is done. Now, come—we’re leaving.”
He stands up. I watch him rise like a nightmare made flesh.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Without so much as a second of hesitation, he slaps me across the face with the back of his hand.
It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it should. Not in light of this new revelation. I slump back into the booth. Through my dazed vision, I see him nod to his men and I hear them come for me. Boots stomping on the dirty, greasy tile.
Still staggering, I spring to my feet and try to dart away from them.
But I’m dizzy and they are everywhere. A forest of arms, reaching out to grab me and lock me in place.
“Don Rokiades,” Lionel says, appearing out of the woodwork. He looks extremely uncomfortable, but also determined. “This is Don Lombardi’s daughter. She should be treated with respect, no?”
I think that’s pretty rich coming from a man who locked me up in a damp room and handed me over to the evil monster who’s trying to force me into an arranged marriage.
But at the moment, I’m grateful. One small spark of brightness in an ocean of shadows.
“Hold it! You are right, Lionel,” Rokiades acknowledges gracefully. “Respect is a rare commodity these days. It’s a quality people still need to be taught.”
His voice is so pleasant. But then his hand moves so fast and so smoothly that I don’t even register what he’s doing until it’s already done. By that time, the knife has sliced down Lionel’s torso, splitting him open from chest to stoma
ch.
I see the blood first.
Then the intestines.
And the pizza I had moments ago burns my throat as it comes up.
But I swallow it back, refusing to show even the slightest hint of weakness in front of these men. Lionel staggers to the floor, spluttering for only a few seconds before the last breath leaves his body. Rokiades tucks the blade quietly back into the sheath on his hip.
I’m stunned. So shook I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t make my feet cooperate enough to walk me forward.
The men carrying me don’t seem to care one way or the other. They hold me between them like a ragdoll, toes trailing over the ground as we make our way out of the restaurant and into a massive black vehicle that’s parked right outside.
Someone shoves me inside, and a moment later, Rokiades slips into the leather seats opposite me.
He makes a show of pulling out a white piece of cloth and starts cleaning the bloody blade of his knife with it, whistling all the while. The whole time, he keeps his eyes on me.
Lionel was clearly a Lombardi loyalist. He’d only been standing up for me because of my last name.
And he paid for it with his life.
It’s such a senseless murder that I can’t quite wrap my head around it. But then, the world I was born into is pretty fucking senseless.
“As I said, Renata,” Rokiades says, “I will not be disobeyed. Or disrespected.”
“He was loyal to the Lombardis,” I say, refusing to be silenced. “An ally to my brother.”
“That he was.”
“I thought you were working with my brother?”
He smiles. “This alliance needs only one Lombardi. I have you now,” he points out. “Why would I need him? Two Italians is too many, I think. You will do just fine.”
My stomach twists, but I bite down on my tongue until I taste blood again.
15
Renata
We drive for half an hour. When the vehicle finally comes to a stop, the sound of music and heavy conversation filters in through the closed doors.
