by Tessa Thorne
Arrogant Prick
A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Tessa Thorne
Contents
Contact Me
1. Giovanni
2. Alessandra
3. Giovanni
4. Alessandra
5. Alessandra
6. Giovanni
7. Alessandra
8. Giovanni
9. Alessandra
10. Giovanni
11. Alessandra
12. Alessandra
13. Giovanni
14. Alessandra
15. Giovanni
16. Alessandra
Epilogue
Contact Me
Author’s Note
Copyright © 2016 by Tessa Thorne
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Chapter One
Giovanni
I pull my punch, so I don’t shatter his jaw. His head snaps back and his chin bounces off his chest. I grip his hair in my fist, yank his head back, and glare into his bloodshot eyes. “Who ordered the hit on my family?”
Crimson blood bubbles out of his smile. He spits out a broken tooth and says, “I told you earlier—I don't know what you're fucking talking about.”
I release his head and sink my other fist into his stomach. He gasps for breath and struggles against the duct tape holding him to the chair. It hurts so much more when you can’t double over after a gut shot like that. I know; I’ve been in his place before.
My shoes make loud clicks against the cement floor as I circle Tommy. The basement is half finished. A washing machine and dryer that both appear brand new are sitting in one corner. Next to them sit a well-used bench press and power rack. A pressure washer is beside the sink in another corner, along with an 8-player poker table.
Boxes litter the floor at my feet. They were once neatly stored in a linked wire cage against the wall, but I tossed them all aside in my search for any clue as to who ordered the hit on my family. I hadn't expected to find anything in them, and I didn't. But it was a good way to release some of my rage. If I hadn't, I might have already killed this goon, and I still need him to talk.
“Do you know who you’re fucking with?” He’s trying to appear tough, but I can see the fear lurking behind his cloudy eyes. We both know who’s in control here.
“You think I give a fuck, Tommy?” I grab the stack of crime scene photos and hold them in front of his face. “You think I still care what happens to me after you did this to my family?!”
I work his stomach like a heavy bag, relishing the feel of his ribs cracking under my knuckles. As I wait for him to recover his breath, I flip through the photos and stop on the first one that shows my sister Elena. She hadn't even turned sixteen.
“This is a nice setup you have here, Tommy.” I plant another punch in his stomach. I don’t hold back. “It’s pretty fancy for a lowly soldier.”
I wait for him to finish vomiting blood and bile. I don’t remember the number of enemy combatants I’ve interrogated before. They teach you to harden yourself in an interrogation. Emotions can cloud your judgment and make you hold back when you shouldn’t.
My stomach feels like a roiling cauldron. My temper is a raging forest fire. He’s going to suffer. Fuck good judgment. The world will burn for what it did to sweet, little El.
“The Pavoni familia must be doing really well for you to live in a house like this in Brooklyn.” I pull a baton from my back pocket and extend it with a flick of my wrist. “So much for the downfall of the Mafia.” The baton crunches into his knee. He screams, twisting his head from side to side, trying to escape the pain.
“I can only see one way out of this situation for you, Tommy.” I grip his chin and stare directly into his watery eyes. “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll end this.”
“You’re gonna let me live?” The hope quavering in his voice makes me want to laugh.
“I didn’t say that, Tommy.” I crack the baton against his right cheek, shattering his eye socket. The soundproof foam padding the walls and ceiling absorb his howls of pain. I pace around the brightly-lit basement as I wait for him to recover.
The treated cement floors slope and angle toward the drain set in the center of the basement, making it easy to wash away any blood and viscera with the power washer. I have to admit, this is a nice setup for an interrogation.
“Tell me, Tommy,” I say as I point at the large plastic drums and industrial acids on the other side of the sink. “How many bodies have you poured down your drains?”
He looks at me with his one good eye. His other eye is bleeding in its deformed socket. Fear has its grip on his face. This is what happens when they realize there’s no help coming. If he’s going to talk, it’ll be soon.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says dully. He doesn’t have the energy to lie convincingly anymore.
“What I want to know is why you didn’t bring my family here and dispose of them cleanly? Or why didn’t you burn the house down to clean up the evidence? Why did you make it so obvious it wasn’t just a home invasion?”
I watch, waiting to see if he’s ready to talk. This is taking too long. I know there’s only a small chance he'll break. Torture hardly ever worked in Afghanistan, and it’s unlikely as fuck to work here. Most of the time people just tell you whatever they think will make you stop.
Every second spent in Tommy’s basement in the ass end of Brooklyn is another second closer to being discovered. All it would take is another member of his crew dropping by, wondering why Tommy didn't show up for the day's collection run. A voice in the back of my mind is telling me that my rage is clouding my judgment; that I should finish up and get out of here. I tell it to shut the fuck up.
Tired of waiting, I bring my arm back, preparing to swing the baton, ready to smash the other side of his face. “I’ll give you all my money!” He screams through his sniffles, trying to hold back his tears. “I’ve got over a hundred grand in that wall safe. Please, just let me live.”
Bargaining, right on schedule.
“That safe?” I gesture to the sleek black box built into the wall. “You can’t offer me what’s already mine, Tommy.”
I lay the baton on the poker table. Tommy’s blood seeps into the green felt surface. I change out my bloody latex gloves for a fresh pair, grab my bag and walk past his home gym to the safe. It's got both an electronic keypad and a fingerprint reader. It's exactly the type of safe an amateur would buy.
“You can’t open that without my fingerprint and my code.” His voice is weak. He’s going to pass out soon. “I’ll let you have it if you just promise to let me live.”
I open up the key panel, wire my code breaker into the electronics, and let it go to work. In the meantime, I walk over to the bench. The forty-pound weight scrapes loudly against the concrete floor as I drag it off the rack. I walk over to Tommy and wait for him to realize what I’m about to do before I smash it down on his toes. He writhes and screams in his chair, begging for mercy until he falls over on his side.
There’s no mercy left in me. All I have left to give is death and suffering, and I’m in a generous mood.
I pull his thumb back, feeling the joint snap and saw it off his hand with the serrated bac
k of my knife. If anyone’s close to his house, they’d hear his screams despite the soundproofing, but I couldn’t care less. He passes out before I finish.
The code breaker blinks green, signaling that it’s unlocked the code. 9999. Fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have expected better from anyone stupid enough to buy a biometric safe. I wipe the blood off his dismembered thumb and press it against the reader, then type in the code. A loud click signals my success. The safe swings open, revealing stacks of hundred dollar bills.
I arrange the bundles neatly into my bag, and walk back to my gruesome workspace. Blood is dripping from Tommy's ruined hand onto the floor and running down into the drain. I lift him up, plant the chair back on the floor and wake him up with smelling salts under his nose.
“Now that I’ve got your money, time to get back to the matter at hand.”
My knife digs into his wrist. The blade severs his palmaris longus tendon, and it snaps back against his forearm with a soft pop, followed by his shrill scream.
I don’t wait for his scream to die down before I cut off his little finger. I don’t care about keeping him alive anymore. I just want him to pay for killing my sister before she got to go to her junior prom.
“Who ordered the hit? Who else was with you?” I ask, but I don't give him time to answer.
All I want is to hear his screams. I cut off his ring finger and watch him writhe in the metal chair.
Fuck.
I need to get a hold of myself. I wrap Tommy’s mangled hand in a ball of duct tape as his eye starts to roll back in his head. He’s whimpering like a baby. His bottom lip is quivering, and his one good tear duct is gushing.
I put the knife down and take his chin in my blood-slicked hand. “Hey, you can still get out of this. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll stop taking you apart piece by piece.”
“Okay, please, stop.” I can barely hear him over his sniveling. “I’ll tell you.”
I wipe off the blade, and the knife folds shut with a click. His eye follows the knife as I tuck it in my pocket. He sighs with relief.
“Who else was there?” I ask.
He looks up at me with his broken face, somehow still hoping for mercy. “I was with Rizzo Napoli and Michael Delluci,” he confesses.
“Describe them!” I shout, and he flinches.
“There’s a photo of us upstairs. It's of the three of us at a club. Rizzo sells coke there.” He blubbers. “Please don’t kill me,” he begs.
“Who ordered the hit?” I ask sternly.
“Don Pavoni.” He breaks down crying. He knows this is the end for him. Even if I don’t kill him, it’s over. He’s a rat now, and that makes him good as dead.
The only problem is that's exactly the answer I wanted to hear. Even as dumb as Tommy is, he must have known that I thought it was the Don that ordered the hit. Is he telling me the truth, or just what I wanted to hear? That's what I'll have to find out, but I'm not going to find out from Tommy. I'll have to work my way up their ranks until I know for sure. Killing a Don isn't going to be easy.
I collect the rest of my gear in my bag and throw it over my shoulder. Tommy’s eye tracks my movements like a mouse eyeing a cat, and he takes one last shuddering breath and speaks.
“Please don’t--”
My fist smashes into his throat, crushing his windpipe.
There’ll be no mercy. Only death and suffering.
Chapter Two
Alessandra
I shimmy the tight leather shorts over my thick thighs, struggle with the final button, and look at myself in the mirror. It confirms that I need to spend more time at the gym instead of eating cannoli. Damn my easy access to the best Italian pastries Brooklyn has to offer. The fact that I've failed to join a gym since I finished at NYU doesn’t help either.
I take the mesh crop top off the hanger and pull it on. My lacy black bra looks amazing under this sweater. My cleavage has probably never looked this good before. Bright red lipstick, dark eyeshadow, and just a hint of blush complete my ensemble. I look damn fuckable.
I put my arms over my head and shake my hips to the beat. Playing softly on my stereo is a demo CD from a new DJ. I make a mental note to call and book him for a live audition. He's a lot better than I had expected for a random drop-in.
I take one last appreciative look at my outfit before I sigh and take it off, putting everything back where it belongs. No way will my mom let me hear the end of it if I try to go out looking like this. I cringe just thinking about what she'd say, and pull on a simple black cocktail dress with a modest neckline instead. So much for my cleavage looking awesome. There was never any doubt I'd end up leaving the house in this dress.
Even my dad shouldn't complain about me wearing this. Oh, who am I kidding? If he saw me, he probably would. I glance at the shoebox on the shelf in front of me. Cocooned in tissue wrap within are a pair of Miu Miu gold gladiator heels, still unworn and in mint condition. He got them for me after I reluctantly agreed to move back home after school. They'd go so well with this dress. I tear my eyes away from them and grab the gold heels I bought at Target instead. They're not Miu Miu, but they'll do. I'll wear the designer pair when I can afford to buy them on my own.
A knock on my door reminds me that life still goes on outside my closet.
“Morning, sweetheart. Can I come in?” Mom’s voice is sharp, cutting through the door, and the heavy thumps of the music. Her tone tells me she wants to say something I don't want to hear.
She knocks again urgently before I have a chance to leave the closet. “I’m coming in, honey; I hope you're decent.” She opens the door without waiting for me to answer, since of course it's unlocked. Dad doesn’t believe in locks in his house, with the exception of his private study.
“Morning, Mom.” I bite back what I really want to say. Couldn’t she wait for me to let her in? I just want to pretend I have a little bit of privacy in this house.
I can tell she’s not feeling the music. If it’s not Celine Dion, she’s going to give it a thumbs down. I eject the CD, return it to its case and put it in my purse along with my keys and my phone.
“You were at work late last night,” she remarks as she subtly scans the room, looking for any signs that I’ve been acting like an independent grown adult. “Were you doing something fun?”
I suppress a loud sigh. “We’ve been over this. I do inventory every second Wednesday of the month. Those are always late nights.”
“Oh, right.” She snaps her thumb and middle finger together, rubbing the nails of each finger against one another. That's one of her tics. She's going to ruin her French manicure if she keeps it up. She's fretting about something, so I know she didn't come here just to make small talk.
She looks down at my heels disapprovingly. “Why aren’t you wearing the heels your father bought you? They look so much better than those cheap knockoffs.”
They really do. “I don’t want to get the Miu Miu’s dirty in the club. I want to save them for the right occasion.”
I hate lying to her, but what can I say without hurting her feelings? I’m not accepting my dad’s bribes for behaving like his little princess. I’m twenty-three years old, have a business degree from NYU, and should be able to make my own decisions about my romantic life. I just accepted the gift so he wouldn’t be insulted. But not a day goes by when I don’t regret letting mom convince me to move back in with them after school.
She nods, and purses her lips. “Marco came by this morning.” Here it comes. “He said you were flirting with someone at the club last night.” She gives me another disapproving look.
I can’t suppress my frown. I should have known this was coming. Of course that was going to come back around and bite me in the ass.
“You know how your dad feels about that.” She softens her voice, to remind me she’s on my side.
I stiffen my shoulders and shake my head to get rid of the tears threatening to well up in my eyes. “That was nothing, Mom. It was just some harml
ess flirting. It didn’t mean anything.”
“There’s nothing harmless about flirting with someone who hasn't earned your father's approval.” She steps close to me, locking her eyes onto mine. “You're his little princess. He only wants the best for you.”
“What’s best for me, Mom?” I look deep into her eyes, hoping to find sympathy from my mother. But instead I just see my dad’s loyal wife looking back at me. “I might as well have joined a nunnery if you want me to follow all his rules.”
She puts her hands on my shoulders and squeezes tightly. “The right guy will come along eventually, and then you can settle down and have a family of your own. Until that time, you just need to listen to your father.”
“And who’s going to decide who the right guy is for me? Don’t I get a choice in this?” I retort.
She pulls me into a hug, and I give her a weak embrace in return. Her diamond earrings glitter in the light from the crystal chandelier hanging high above our heads. The earrings are brand new, with a total weight of four carats between the pair. Dad got them for her after they had a particularly bad argument where she ended up being right. He never admitted he was wrong, or outright apologized to her though. Is that the kind of guy I'm supposed to wait for?
“It'll be okay, honey.” She holds me tight as her voice shakes a bit. She's trying to convince herself, as well as me. I squeeze her back tightly, grateful for that bit of empathy. “Your father is a great man. Being the wife and the daughter of a great man means that you and I have to live by different rules than other women. You'll realize eventually that this is all for the best.” I resist the urge to argue, or shake my head.
“Okay, Mom.” She lets me go. “I have to go to work now. I’ll grab breakfast somewhere on the way.”
“Okay, honey. Don’t be out too late.”
I grab a cardigan and walk past her, frustrated that she’s staying behind in my room when I’m heading out. It’s not like I don’t know that she snoops through my room when I’m not home, but she doesn't have to be so obvious about it.
