I stopped a few stalls away from the shop that Mini-Jagger went to, aka Thierry, and glanced at my watch. I had a few minutes to spare, if he was even coming, since he was now living with the Landi. I wondered whether the Landi would be following him around like they were doing to Frano. Most likely, Frano would’ve sent the kid to them so that Thierry could be watched twenty-four-seven. I didn’t know Thierry that well. The boy had only come to live with the D’Angelos a month prior to me leaving, the recon I’d done on him not as extensive as the others.
A shout came from behind me, capturing my attention. I looked in the direction of a stall, where two teenage girls were arguing over something ... no, not something, someone—Thierry. The boy was definitely a mini Jagger, his dark hair and fine features almost as beautiful as his older brother’s, just more effeminate, which the two girls seemed to be appreciating, their fight over him leaving the boy flustered. Another girl, who looked similar but older, barked at the girls to let Thierry go. I instantly recognized them: the Landi sisters. They were well-known on the nightclub scene. Although, they didn’t tend to go to the clubs I went to, I had still seen them around and knew the strip they frequented.
My focus shifted to the two big men shadowing the group, without a doubt the girls’ bodyguards. One of the motherfuckers looked my way. I quickly shifted my attention to the stall next to me, pretending to show interest in the watermelon. I highly doubted he recognized me, because he would’ve been on me in a second. Instead, he was probably scoping out the area, making sure there weren’t any threats. I had done similar work for the FBI, and these guys were just as good, which was bad for me, because it made it just that much harder to get at Thierry. I shot a glance back at the group, sizing up the females. Maybe they could be a way to get to the boy.
I fished out some coins from my pocket, and handed it over to the vendor, buying a slice of watermelon. Since the bodyguards would’ve been given my photo, I wanted to use the fruit to hide my face. I shifted to the next stall, keeping my back to them, pretending to look at the cold cuts of meat. I nodded at the vendor, shrugging every so often so he thought I was listening.
One, two, three, four, five... I counted in my head before flicking my gaze back to the group. The other bodyguard looked my way, causing me to move onto the next store, his gaze a little too inquisitive. With my back to him, I rubbed the watermelon on my shirt, then threw it into a bin. I headed into a woman’s clothing store, not a shop I would have chosen, but one that Thierry frequented, the little wannabe drag queen having a penchant for sequins. Though, with his fan-girls in tow, I wasn’t sure he would risk coming in here, because in the past he always looked at the dresses alone. I grimaced at the memory of three men calling him a fenucca as he came out of the store, the word meaning fag. I loathed homophobes, fucking hated their guts. I didn’t understand what made the shits so uptight about men who liked men. Actually, the arrogant pricks probably thought we all wanted to fuck their asses. Me, I just wanted to kick them—which I had. I’d followed the three men until I had seen an opportunity to give them a little lesson in manners, the memory making me smile.
I stopped in front of the shop assistant. She was young, probably just out of her teens, and very pretty, her long brown hair curly and her heart-shaped face picture perfect.
I wrinkled my nose and pointed to my shirt. “I had an accident; can I please use your restroom?” I asked, hoping she spoke English.
She smiled at me. “Certainly. It’s over there.” She pointed to the back of the stall. I headed through the racks of women’s clothing, slipping into the tight restroom. I pulled off my shirt, hoping that Thierry’s group came into the shop, although it wasn’t a major problem if they didn’t, since I could just seek out the Landi sisters at the night spots, getting to Thierry through them.
Noise came from out front, the sound of girls talking all at once, then the voice I wanted to hear: a French accent—Jagger’s half-brother. I opened the bathroom door a crack and peered out, spotting the girls looking through a rack of dresses. Thierry pulled a bright red dress out and placed it up against one of the girls, probably imagining wearing it himself. If anything, it would look better on him, because he was considerably prettier than the Landi sisters. All but the oldest one was chubby, with thick black hair and even thicker eyebrows.
My gaze flicked between the bodyguards. One was standing behind Thierry, while the other was out front of the stall. Both of them were around six-foot-three, which was a couple of inches taller than me. They were battle-scarred, tough-looking men, the older of the two fucking hot, totally my type: brutish and heavyset. I grimaced, the man reminding me of Alberto, not someone I wanted to think about, especially since it hurt like fuck.
I waited until the group had left the store before coming out of the bathroom. I held my soiled shirt up, showing the shop assistant. “My shirt is ruined,” I said. “Pity you only sell female clothes, but thank you for allowing me to clean myself up.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, looking at my abs, which I couldn’t blame her for, considering I had a six-pack.
“Well, it was very kind of you.” I took a hold of her hand and gave it a kiss, the girl giggling in response. I let go of her hand and headed out of the shop, the girl’s appreciation perking me up. Other people looked my way, the older ones shooting daggers at me. Fuck, they were prudes, I was only shirtless.
I glanced at Thierry’s group, who were several stalls away, ordering ice creams. Now looking forward to tonight, I headed in the opposite direction. I would seek the sisters out at the nightclubs and hook up with one of them, or even better, if Thierry was with them I could cut out the middle bitches and go straight for the prize. Oh, I didn’t want to fuck him, I just wanted to use him as a hostage to get to Frano and Jagger.
I slipped back through the trees, heading for the car. I got into the driver’s side and dumped my T-shirt on the Padre’s feet, annoyed that he was now in the front passenger seat.
“Did it go well?” he asked, his eyes instantly going to my bare torso.
I grimaced, not appreciating his stare. “I think I’ve found a way to get to Mini-Jagger.”
“Mini Jagger?”
“Thierry.”
“Who’s Thierry?”
I frowned. “Haven’t you met Jagger’s younger brother?”
He shook his head.
“He was at the D’Angelo house when we took over.”
“I didn’t see him, I was preoccupied with Jagger.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“I was, so who is this Thierry?”
“Jagger’s half-brother, and a little wimp. He’s eighteen and looks very similar to him.”
The priest sat up straighter. “Really?”
“Yes, you pervert, really. Does that interest you?”
He nodded. “I would like to meet him.”
“You will if things go to plan, though, if you want to show Thierry the light, you will play it my way.” I turned to the wheel and started the engine, hoping tonight worked out, because if it did, it just meant I was one step closer to bringing the D’Angelos down.
3
Frano
I got out of the car and headed inside my house, ignoring Mario’s call. I had planned on bringing Thierry home today, something I couldn’t do after the shooting. He was better off staying with the Landi, while I was better off staying away from everyone. I headed up the main staircase, needing to get out of this death suit. I opened my bedroom door and closed it behind me, slipping off my jacket and undoing my tie. I quickly undressed and headed into the shower, washing off the mud that had gotten into my hair when Mario had knocked me to the ground. Once done, I got out of the shower and dried myself, then headed for the phone. I took it to my bed, willing myself to concentrate, because the phone call I was going to make would start a war.
I sat down on the mattress and dialed the Black Russian. I couldn’t stall him any longer. His messages were irate to say the least
, the last one ending with a threat, stating he would be on the next flight over if I didn’t call him within the next twenty-four hours. I’d had every intention of calling him a few nights ago, but with what had happened to Alberto I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind.
I dialed his number and placed the phone to my ear. The Black Russian’s receptionist answered. I told her who I was, asking for her boss. She put me on hold, and then a few seconds later the Black Russian’s voice came over the line.
“I don’t like being ignored, Frano,” he said, the man not wasting time with pleasantries. “I tend to kill people who ignore me, because those people are usually hiding something, something that would get them killed anyway.”
I bit back a nasty reply, his tone angering me. Although right now I didn’t give a shit if he did show up guns blazing, because I would put the psychotic freak in his place. No one was going to do what the Donatelli had done to me—ever again.
“I have nothing to hide from you,” I said.
“Then why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“My brother was murdered.”
The line went silent, only the man’s breathing telling me he was still there. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he finally said. “My condolences to you and your family, and if I may be of any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, but there’s no need, since I was the one who killed him.”
The line went silent again, then the man resumed talking. “Is this a joke?” he said. “Because I cannot believe you would do that, Frano. You love your brother.”
“I stabbed him because he raped and brutalized Jagger.”
The Black Russian’s breath hitched, then he started spewing out words in his mother tongue, ones I assumed were curses. After several seconds, he finally stopped. “How bad is Jagger hurt?”
“He will survive what Alberto did to him physically, but whether he will be able to handle the mental side of things is another matter. I believe he will, but that’s just my opinion. By the way, you will never get your hands on him, so don’t ask again.”
“I won’t bother you about Jagger anymore, but I would like to know about my own men. Why hasn’t Sasha called me?”
“Because I only just got him back after the Donatelli kidnapped him.”
“What?!”
“They also killed your other men.”
The Black Russian’s voice lowered; his tone now chilling. “If you tell me that Yuri is dead I will not forgive you,” he said, talking about Sasha’s younger brother.
“The Donatelli shot him in the back of the head like the other guards.”
The Black Russian started breathing heavy, his fury coming across the line loud and clear. “You do know what this means?” he said.
I’d been informed prior to getting the guards that I was responsible for his men’s safety, and if I failed, I would be killed.
“I am sorry for your loss,” I said, “but you cannot place the blame on me. My household was overrun and I was enslaved, your guards failing in their job. Regardless, I have made the Donatelli pay for their deaths.”
“I don’t care about the semantics; my men are dead due to your failure. You need to be punished for this.”
“I already am, by having to live the rest of my life knowing I’m my brother’s killer. Killing me isn’t punishment, it’s a reward. Regardless, if you think you can take me out, let the games begin; I will be waiting for you, and be assured I have an arsenal behind me. I am now the Don of the island, I have the Landi as bodyguards, and I know you’re aware of their skills, which means if you send anyone after me you will be killed.”
“You dare threaten me?!”
“It’s not a threat, it’s a warning. If you keep away from my island, the Landi will not set foot in Russia.”
“I have my own mercenaries that can match the Landi.”
“Then send them and see what happens, and by the way, Sasha is now one of my own, he is of my household and you will never see him again.”
“I will not kill you,” he shouted, “I will crucify you!” The phone went dead.
I hung up, immediately dialing Pedro Landi. “The Black Russian’s coming, be prepared. Inform the Santini as well as the other families. We are now at war. Send a team to monitor his home, and put another one on his headquarters in Naples.”
“Consider it done.”
“Buono, and protect yourself.”
“As always.”
“I’m fortunate I have you as a friend.”
“Likewise.”
“Grazie. Now, how is Thierry doing?”
Pedro laughed. “You are such a troublemaker, Frano. Now I understand why you said he would respect my daughters. He’s not a Romeo, he’s a Juliet.”
I laughed despite my bad mood.
“Very funny, Frano,” he said. “But not as funny as watching my two youngest fighting over him. I swear they will rip the poor boy’s arms out of his sockets if they don’t stop pulling on him. Anyway, enough about my silly girls, how are you doing? I hear someone tried to shoot you at the funeral.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“Are you really?”
“No, but I only have myself to blame for that.”
“Frano, my friend, you did what you had to. That is the job of a Don. You do things that are for the greater good, no matter how much pain it causes you. I’ve done many things that have hurt me, even devastated me, yet I did them because they were necessary. It will hurt forever, but you will eventually learn how to cope with the pain. My only advice to you is to keep your mind busy; immerse yourself in work to get through the hardest months. Tenere al sicuro, Frano.”
“Grazie, and you keep safe too.” I hung up, knowing he was right.
I swapped my towel for a robe, then headed for the east wing’s slave cells. I hoped the new slave trainer the Santini had sent me was as good as they claimed, because I wanted the cells cleared out, and then the House of Whores emptied next. I was sick of this business; it was what had ruined my brother, and what would ruin the rest of the famiglia if I didn’t get us free from it.
I descended the main staircase, crossed the floor, then took to the east wing’s stairs. Two guards were sitting on chairs, chatting in front of the line of cells. They stopped talking and stood up, acknowledging me with a curt bow. They were unintelligent brutes, but sufficient as guards, the men not minding the long, tedious hours involved in the job.
“Which trainers are working?” I asked.
The guard with the crooked nose pointed toward the end cell, “Mario is in there,” he indicated to the cell behind him, “while Alessandro is in that one.”
I focused my attention on the cell with my newest slave trainer. He was the Santini Don’s youngest son. “I want to see him in action,” I said.
The guard unlocked the door, allowing me entrance to the cell. A group of women were chained together on my right. They were the mistresses of the Donatelli, who had been taken from the top floor of the House of Whores. As expected, all the women were very attractive, mostly black-haired Italian beauties with a few redheads and one blonde.
On the bed, Alessandro was fucking an unchained woman. His body was impressive, Alessandro’s obsession with the gym, piercings, and tattoos well-known. He had modeled for body and tattoo magazines, and had a huge following on social media sites, the only thing that worried me about him. If anything, he didn’t need this job, although he wanted it, the man a self-professed sex-addict. It had been a long standing joke on the island that he’d had so many STDs that he should’ve received an award for being alive, let alone still fucking, which was the reason why I’d insisted on checking his medical records before hiring him. Luckily, he was clean, a true medical miracle.
Alessandro removed himself from the woman and greeted me with a respectful bow, which looked rather comical considering he was completely naked, with the exception of a condom on his rather impressive tool of the trade, not to mention the Prince
Albert piercing through the head of his cock. I’d heard he liked pain, but liked causing it even more.
“How may I help you, Don?” he asked. He was twenty-five and had spiky black hair with red tips, along with many body piercings, his nipple rings glinting under the light. And his tattoos ... they covered his torso and arms, even his thighs, the images a violent haze of color.
“I want to know how you’re fairing at work,” I said.
“Extremely well. The woman I was fucking is ready for sale.”
“That’s fantastic; Jagger usually takes a month, not a few days.”
“It didn’t take any effort on my behalf, she was already broken.”
I glanced at the other women. “Are they also broken?”
“It appears so. I was testing each slave, weeding out the ones who are not ready.”
“Buono. Move the women who are ready to my slaves’ cell.”
“Where are your slaves going?”
“They will be moved to my room. Now, continue; I’ll leave you to your work.”
I exited the room, heading back up the staircase and down the one that lead to Camila and Rita’s cell. I stopped in front of the guard, who was sleeping on the job. I kicked the chair out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. He quickly scrambled to his feet, the man now fully awake and looking terrified.
“Mi dispiace, Don,” he said.
“I don’t want your empty apologies; all I want is for you to do your job, which doesn’t involve sleeping. We will discuss this further after your shift. Come to my office once you’re done.”
The guard nodded, looking as though he was going to piss himself. I refrained from sneering at him, his scared look angering me, even more so since the man was my age, not some kid just out of their teens.
“Now, open the goddamn door,” I said, “and if I catch you looking through the flap I will have your eyes removed with an ice pick. Am I making myself clear?”
My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Ep. 6 Consequences Page 4
