"You don't understand—"
"You're goddamn right about that," I agreed, reaching for the lamb cleaver before turning back, testing the weight in my hand.
"We were owed!"
"So we take the money. We take the blood of the man who owes us money. We don't spill the blood of the wives. We don't take the innocence of the fucking children. You should have known that. Now you're going to learn the hard way."
By the time my phone rang in the plastic bag I'd tucked it into to make sure there would be no chance I'd have to replace that as well as the suit I'd already lost, Paulie looked more like a prop in a horror movie than a man. Bones sticking out of skin. Intestines dangling. Piss mingled with the vomit on the floor, diluting the bright red of the blood.
I took a moment to strip and wipe off the excess blood, then went to scrub up in the sink before moving to uncover my phone, checking who I'd missed.
Emilio.
With a curse, I checked the time, wondering how much I had let pass, what was going on with Chris and Gigi.
It wasn't as bad as I thought.
Just shy of two hours.
Not long in the grand scheme of things, but Paulie had felt every moment of it.
"Yeah?"
"It's done."
"Okay. I know you've had a similar night to the one I've had, so I am going to need you to call Brio and get him over to the shop."
"Who?" Emilio asked, sounding exhausted. I didn't blame him. I was sure that once the adrenaline wore off, I would be drained as well.
"Our other guest this evening. Things came to light. About certain hands. And underage bodies."
"Oh, fuck," Emilio hissed. "Alright."
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Does he know?" he asked, clearly meaning my old man.
"No. Took a bottle to bed."
"Those two were tight."
"I have zero tolerance of this kind of shit."
"Yeah, no. I get it. I agree. I'll call Brio. I'll get a cup of coffee and help out. If you can be up, so can I," he said, proving again that he had it in him to work harder, just chose not to for a boss he didn't respect.
Me, on the other hand, he would endure two murders and body disposals for.
"Appreciate it," I said before hanging up, then put my phone back in the bag before moving around, collecting up instruments, taking them to the sink.
I bleached them and soaped up as much of my body as I could, grabbing some old uniform pants and a jacket from a dusty box in a corner to slip on before making my way upstairs to put the tools back into the dishwasher, setting it to run again, then making my way back down with some industrial cleaners the guys used to clean down the shop each night.
By the time I had everything set up and ready for them, they were coming in the back door, shuffling down the steps.
Emilio first, half-empty iced coffee in his hand.
Brio next.
He was just shy of my height, a little thinner, but fit in a more wiry way. He kept his black hair buzzed, had a sharp jaw and onyx eyes. He had an array of black and gray tats snaking up his arms and across his neck. He'd never gotten the memo about dressing for the family, wearing jeans, a black tee, and black Tims. He looked more like a gang member than a made man in the mafia, but Brio had never been someone to give a shit about appearances.
He moved toward the door first, hands in pockets, casual as can be about a corpse clean-up. He should have been, with how many corpses he'd created that needed to be dealt with.
He glanced in the room, head nodding, before turning back to me.
"That's a good amount of damage. Respect that," he said, grabbing for the latex gloves I'd found upstairs, taking the box of black bags.
"At least you don't need to cut this one up," Emilio said, sighing, drawing Brio's attention back to me, again, impressed. The sick fuck.
"I'm hurt I wasn't invited to the festivities, I'm not gonna lie," Brio said, clucking his tongue.
"The night really wasn't supposed to take this turn," I told him, shrugging, feeling the weight of my arms from all the hacking and slicing and lifting of bodies.
"You always did know how to make shit interesting," Brio said. "Is something going on that I need to know about?" he asked, pinning me with those icy eyes of his.
"Not that I know of. Yet. The way shit is going lately, just keep an ear for your phone, yeah?"
"Got it," he agreed, ducking into the room.
Emilio stood with me for a moment, finishing his coffee. His gaze cut to me as Brio's voice carried to us from the other room.
But he wasn't talking to us.
He was talking to the body.
He did weird shit like that.
"I heard you like touching little girls," he murmured, and I could hear him dragging a chair across the floor, likely trying to get the meat hook uncurled, so he could drop the body. "Got off easy, man. Did you know there are five basic types of torture? You got sharp, blunt, cold, hot, loud. Sure, sure, there are millions of little subsets within each group. Hot water. Fire. That sort of thing. So many ways to spend so many hours. We would have had lots of fun, you and me."
"Jesus Christ," Emilio hissed, shaking his head. "I hope to fuck that bastard never gets pissed at me. He'd revive a man just to rip out his teeth one-by-one."
"Oh, shit. Sorry 'bout that man. Guts just fell right out. Guess I gotta be more careful with ya."
"Do something," I demanded, barely holding back a laugh at the look of horror on Emilio's face.
"I think I'm owed hazard pay for having to dispose of something with that crazy bastard."
"You got it," I agreed, nodding my head.
"Go clean up fully. We got this. Then get your girl out."
"She's not my girl," I insisted, shaking my head.
To that, Emilio moved into the doorway, looking at Paulie's mutilated body, then back at me.
"You sure about that?"
"Oh, man," Brio interrupted. "He didn't cut your tongue out? Shit, man. That would have been my first move. Harder to scream when you're choking on your blood, y'know? Missed opportunity, there."
"Yeah," I said to Emilio, trying to block out Brio's insane ramblings. "This was business. He made the family look bad. Got away with it for years. It's not personal."
"Aw shit, little boss man," Brio said, standing upright, facing me. "Even I know this shit is personal. I mean, where is his cock? Oh, wait, shit, is that it?" he asked, pointing. "I thought it was a finger. Damn. No wonder he was such an asshole, packing that pencil dick. But yeah, boss man, me? I do this shit. You? You don't do this shit. So you doing this shit, that's personal. Own that shit."
With that, he turned his focus back to Paulie.
"Keep an eye on him," I told Emilio quietly.
"You have no worries with this," he told me, shrugging. "We know what we're doing. Go handle the rest of this, so we can all get some much-needed rest."
With that, I did, heading home for a quick shower and change after checking with Chris to make sure no one had tried to come and relieve him of his duties.
Luckily, everyone was working on laying the new floor, and had forgotten about the woman in the basement.
Which was good.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and made my way back to the brownstone, taking a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever might come my way.
Or so I thought.
"Where the fuck have you been?" my father asked when I made my way in through the house, glancing over at the new flooring that was carefully being put into place by men who were not qualified to do so, their suits getting rubbed bare in the knees from crawling around, their fucking gold jewelry dangling. It was a sight. If I were less tired and stressed, I'd have had a good chuckle over it. "I was just going to talk to our guest about her actions last night," he added, already reaching for the door to the basement, making his way down.
He might have always had a poor tolerance for liquor, but the bastard rarely dealt with hangovers.
Which made him a lot more on his game than I was currently feeling.
I had to shake it off.
This was the most important part.
The only part that mattered.
I didn't even trip over that thought like I knew I would have just a week or so before.
Because back then, it was saving the family's face that was most important, making sure the other families—especially the Espositos and the Lombardis—had no reason to try to make a power move, take over the top family position.
I didn't know when that stopped being the main motivator.
Fuck.
Sure I did.
It started right there in my closet. Right before I even put my hands on her. When I felt a tug somewhere inside, something new and interesting and, yeah, fucking terrifying, if I were honest.
There had been hints of affection before then, having appreciated her attitude and fighting spirit right from the jump, but in that closet, when she showed me something soft under all that hard, that was when the change started.
It had only continued to grow since then.
I just didn't realize how big it had gotten until the night before. When, for the first time, I was genuinely worried I wouldn't be able to get her out of this mess.
Right then, panic had gripped me, a tight sensation in my chest and throat, a sloshing in my stomach.
It was then that I knew I would move hell and earth to get her free, to get her justice. And to give us a real shot at something.
Not as debtor and collector.
Not as a kidnapper and hostage.
Just as a man and a woman.
I wanted to give that a shot.
I had a feeling there was something there.
A future.
But to have that, I had to fix the present.
And, I reminded myself as I gave Chris a nod, watching as he moved out of the way, the present was far from fixed.
But we were close.
So close.
Or so I thought.
My father opened the door to the unfinished side of the basement, and I could hear the rattle of the chain as a half-dozing Giana jolted awake, eyes swollen, but from exhaustion, not tears.
No, she hadn't been crying.
There was a strange swelling of pride inside at that.
I had no idea if that was because I was happy she had that much spirit, or if it was because she trusted me that much, or a combination of the two. But it was there, a floating sort of sensation in my chest.
Her gaze slid up my father's body, her chin jutting up as she got to his face. She didn't look at me, and I got the feeling it was because she didn't want it to seem like we had any sort of connection. Which was good. My father would be pissed if he thought someone respected me more than him.
"What was your name again?" he asked, glaring down at her, trying to intimidate her. And if that didn't show you what a little fucking man he was, I didn't know what did, trying to scare a small woman less than half his age.
"Giana," she told him, no tremble in her lip, no tremor in her voice.
"Giana. You fucked up last night," he told her.
"Or did I make things easier?" she asked, shrugging one of her shoulders.
"How the fuck could killing a family friend make anything easier for me?"
"When did he ever pay on time?" she shot back. "And I can assure you, Mr. Costa, that when he did, it was only because I made sure it happened. My father was never good with money. I think he was very impressed with you," she added, and I could hear the hint of disgust in her voice, but only because I was beginning to know her well enough to. I knew what she was trying to do. Stroke my father's ego. And it was killing her pride to do it. But she was doing it. And I felt another wave of pride. "He was always trying to emulate you. Buying things we both knew he couldn't afford because he wanted to be more like you."
"He was a decent man. Flawed, but decent," my father said, chest puffing just the slightest bit. "Which makes me wonder how wicked his daughter must be to shoot him in cold blood with no provocation."
To that, Giana took a deep breath, giving him a version of the truth I had a feeling she had been working on all night, making sure there was no way any part of it could be taken the wrong way.
"I used to think the same thing about my father," she told my father. "That he was decent, just flawed. Which was why I always nudged him to do what was right and pay his debts, no matter the personal sacrifice he might have to endure. It's important for your word to be honorable. But last night, sitting at your dining table, I realized I was wrong all these years. He wasn't a decent man. He was the lowest kind."
"And what kind is that?"
"The kind who betrays his own family."
Christ. I could have written this speech for her.
Family over everything.
That was the code we lived and died by.
"How did he betray his own family?"
"Last night, you had a guest come in while we were all having our... meeting," she fumbled on that word, choosing it carefully.
"Yes. An associate of mine."
"Well, I'm sure you have no idea about this. I think people can hide their sins pretty well when they know powerful, moral men would be angry if they uncovered them."
"Are you talking about Paulie?" my father asked, the name making Giana cringe for a second before she shook it off. "What are his sins, then?"
"He rapes children," she told him, gaze going up to hold my father's. "He raped me when I was fifteen."
"There are a lot of men in the world who have a taste for young women," my father said, shrugging, suggesting that it could have been another man.
But I was reading more into that. Into the almost defensive way he said it.
Shit.
Fuck.
Goddamn it.
He knew.
He knew what Paulie had been up to.
He looked the other way.
Or he outright allowed it.
Either way, shit just went from bad to worse, and I had no way to get that information across to Giana.
So she went on.
"That's true, unfortunately. But I remembered something very specific about this man. A port wine birthmark on his left hand. I even drew a picture of it after the rape. I had told my father about it. And last night, he shook the hand with that very birthmark on it. He knew, Mr. Costa. He knew that Paulie raped me as a little girl, that one of his friends had raped my mother. Worse yet, I think my father let him do it, gave him a key to our apartment to do it."
"That's quite the little story you've created in your head. I'm sure if I invited Paulie over here to talk about it with us, he would say he had nothing to do with that event."
This is the part where things were going to get even more touchy.
Because he couldn't call Paulie.
This was not going to be good.
As if sensing the train of my thoughts, Giana's gaze finally met mine, her brows pinching at whatever she found on my face.
Shock.
Fear.
Resignation.
Those were all things I was feeling right then.
She could have seen any—or all—of them.
"That's not going to be possible," I told my father, making him half-turn to look at me.
"What's not possible?"
"Having Paulie over."
"Why not?" my father demanded, words a snapping sound, already sensing I was about to say something he didn't want to hear.
"Because he's in a couple garbage bags being transported to a safe location."
"A couple of garbage bags?" my father repeated, not great with subtlety.
"I always believed our family was against pedophilia. I didn't want him disgracing our name. I handled it."
"Who the fuck gave you the order to do that?" my father shouted, loud enough for Giana to shock back.
I couldn't blame her.
My father's anger was of the explosive sort.
If you weren't prepared for it, it could be scary.
I, however, had been on the receiving end of his rage since I was a kid.
I wasn't worried about his words, his tone.
What mattered right now were his actions.
"He was our best collector. He brought in more than all of the others combined. Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"He touched children."
"Who the fuck cares what he did if he got the job done?" he roared back, making my stomach twist.
It was one thing to believe your father was scum. It was a complete other to learn that there wasn't a word to describe how disgusting he was. That he could look the other way to children being abused.
This was the man I'd pledged loyalty to.
I didn't see the gun coming out.
I should have expected it, but I was reeling from the revelation.
I sure as fuck felt it when the bullet ripped through my shoulder, though.
Giana's screech pierced my ears as the pain gripped my system, as Chris burst into the room, and the men upstairs came running across the floor, down the stairs, and in as well.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" my father raged, waving the gun, making his men jerk around, not wanting to be on the receiving end of a bullet meant for me. "You think you're the boss of this family?" he asked, expecting an answer, needing me to admit I wasn't.
"I thought I was following through with the oaths this family has made."
"You don't get to make those fucking decisions. Those are my fucking decisions," he raged, flipping the gun in his hand, whipping me across the face with it.
And I had no choice but to stand there and take it.
In the mafia, if you raised hands to a made man, you signed your death warrant.
That was just any old made man.
You simply didn't raise a hand to a boss.
That didn't happen.
Sure, he might kill me for what I'd done.
But if I put hands on him, I would be dead for sure.
I was placing my bet.
Taking the beating so I might live.
The Woman in the Trunk Page 15
