The constant ache in my chest flares into a burning pain, but I shove the man’s head deeper underwater and hold him down despite his frantic struggling. Just as he inhales water, I yank him up and hold his face half an inch above the surface as he coughs and sputters.
“I need names, Rubio,” I snarl.
“Fuck you!” he yells.
I sigh, but it’s more for show than actual frustration. He hasn’t outright lied, which would’ve earned him a much more violent interrogation, but he isn’t exactly cooperating either. Liars and traitors will always get special treatment from me, no matter who they are. They’re as unforgivable as people who abuse women, children, and pets.
I push him back under for almost a full minute before pulling him up again.
“I saw you hiding behind the shelves in the warehouse three months ago. That ugly ass nose of yours is unforgettable. Who else was there with you that night?” I demand.
He may have survived the battle with the largest body count New York City has seen in decades, but every breath he took since he participated in the attack on my family has been on borrowed time. I will track down and murder every person involved.
Until three months ago, only one person successfully manipulated their way into my life with lies. I warned her never to return to New York City, but I won’t be nearly as kind to those who threatened my family.
My don’s words echo in my mind.
Kill them all.
When Nico Russo, the most powerful and ruthless mafia don in New York City, gives you a command, you follow it all the way through—even if you die.
Which I did. Twice. Once in the warehouse when my bulletproof vest failed and again on the operating table.
I’d do it all again. I have no regrets. Protecting the Russo family is a legacy my father began, and I will continue with pride. No mafia family is more deserving. Dante and Nico are the most scrupulous and trustworthy men, other than mio papà, I’ve ever met. I will not insult them by failing again.
When Serenity was kidnapped three months ago, she’d just found out she was pregnant. Even though he’d only shown it for a millisecond, the fear in my don’s eyes when he found her pregnancy tests strewn over the asphalt plagues my nightmares. The fury in his instructions resonates within my soul.
Kill them all.
I wasted three months in recovery. Serenity and her brother, Giorgio, did their best to catch the fucker behind the attack, but he slipped away despite being badly wounded. They even razed an entire block and searched every emergency room within an hour’s drive of the industrial park to snuff him out, but he has connections. Powerful, dangerous connections.
Which makes dealing with this puny punk annoying.
I lean forward and murmur in my captive’s ear, adding an eerie intimacy to the moment.
“You think your tiny gang means anything? Give me names, or I’ll flood the sewers with their blood, chop them into tiny pieces, and stuff their bodies in the walls of their crappy apartments. They’ll never be found. Never be buried. Never find peace in the afterlife.”
His audible gulp betrays his fear, but he fights the zip ties on his wrists and pushes against my hold on his head.
Pinching pain streaks through me as the incisions on my chest stretch, but I twist my fingers, pulling chunks of hair out of his scalp, and push him down until the tip of his nose dips under the churning water.
“Is that what you want, Rubio? You want your entire family wandering the streets for eternity? You gonna kill your loved ones over a dispute you had no business sticking your fat nose into?”
“No! I’ll talk!”
“So talk. I’m listening.”
He stutters. I dunk him. He thrashes. I lift. He sputters and says several names. All male. He doesn’t include his leader, Chad.
I straight arm him so deep into the barrel my elbow digs into his back and air bubbles pop around his shoulders, ensuring water floods his nostrils as I push him nearly upside down.
He kicks and flails, but I pin his zip-tied ankles to the side of the barrel with my shin. When Karlos starts forward as though to help me, I jerk my chin, demanding he back off, and tighten my grip in Rubio’s hair.
I yank the stronzo up and ask him my next questions without waiting for him to gather himself.
“Who approached Chad? What did they promise you?”
He coughs. I push him under again until his chest expands, then pull him up and repeat my questions.
He’s not fast enough with a response, so I dunk and lift him again. When I lower his face toward the water once more, he breaks.
“A big dude! Spoke broken English. Scar running down his face. German or some shit.” He spits before continuing. “Gave us fifteen grand per person and promised thirty more each afterward. We didn’t know the Russo’s were the target. I swear, we—”
I push him under and hold him there until he stops fighting. He jerks a few times before going lax. With a disgusted flick of my wrists to rid my hands of his filth, I stalk toward the sink in the corner of the old butcher shop.
My white dress shirt clings to my soaked front, highlighting the bandages wrapped around my chest. I sneer at my reflection in the rusty mirror above the sink and shrug out of the wet fabric. Karlos drops the first-aid box from the car onto the gleaming counter. I thank him and use the soap to wash my hands before unwrapping my bandages and peeling the waterproof dressings off my skin.
The bruising between my ribs looks much better than it did even a week ago and the flesh around the multiple rows of stitching is no longer inflamed, but the burning behind my sternum and the constant queasiness in my stomach means I’m not as far along in the healing process as I need to be.
I don’t have time to rest. Every moment Ralf, the man behind Serenity’s kidnapping, remains free is another moment the Russo family is in grave danger.
Ralf isn’t his real name. It’s the pseudonym he used to get close to Serenity. The liar was right under our noses at her college and we didn’t even know. I grind my teeth together in fury at the thought and dig around in the first-aid kit until I find what I need. After a quick wash in the sink with cold water, I apply ointment and fresh bandages in silence.
We suspect he’s Russian mafia, so Rubio’s statement about broken English fits, but Ralf didn’t have a scar on his face. Even after Nico beat him to a pulp for touching Serenity a few days before her kidnapping, no one would describe him as scarred. Maybe beaten black and blue or swollen with a busted nose, but Nico didn’t use a knife.
Which means Ralf or whatever the fuck his name is brought other people from his homeland to New York. We don’t have concrete evidence which Russian mafia family he’s from, and the last thing we want is to start a war without proof, so our search continues.
My four most trusted men who aren’t currently guarding the Russo’s stand in the room with me, waiting for my command. As Nico Russo’s consigliere, my words carry the same power as his.
Nico has other engagements. In fact, I’ll do all the heavy lifting for the foreseeable future so he can devote his time and energy to his pregnant bride.
I check the time on my watch and curse under my breath.
“We’ll take out the rest of Chad’s gang and expand our search to vets, pharmacies, clinics, etcetera,” I say as I strip out of my wet clothes. “Anywhere with medical equipment or drugs.” I unzip the clothes bag hanging from the nearest meat hook and pull on a fresh pair of suit pants. “Keep it within an hour’s drive from the industrial park. He wouldn’t have survived longer. Capisci?”
“Yes, consigliere,” they respond in unison.
I hide my wince as I pull on a clean dress shirt and meet Karlos’s eyes.
“Do I need to come back and check on clean up?” I ask.
“No, sir,” Karlos says without an ounce of hesitation.
I trust these men. They were all at the warehouse the night of the attack and have served Nico Russo well over the years, so I clap Karlos on the shoulder as I pass and thank the rest with a nod before stalking out the door.
Out of sight of prying eyes, I shorten my stride and drop the pretenses, pressing my palm to my sternum and giving my shoulders a slow, careful roll as I limp through the dark maze of halls.
Before I step through the exit, I straighten my spine and drop my fists to my sides. The fury pulsing through me gives purpose to my pain. I duck into my car, check the time, and rush through afternoon traffic to the high-rise the Russo family calls home.
It’s my home, too.
Ever since my father devoted his life to protecting Dante Russo, he’s lived near them. As a child, existing in their shadows rankled, but now I understand the dangers interwoven with power and wouldn’t live any other way. Protecting Nico and his family fills me with pride.
My parents used to maintain strict boundaries with the Russo family, more to keep priorities aligned and safety protocols in place, but ever since my mamma died three years ago and Nico took over daily operations of the Russo business, Dante and his second wife, Kara, have taken my father under their wing. He’s still the same hard-ass, lethal man he’s always been, but he hardly ever eats dinner alone and the Russo’s always invite him to family events. He may opt out more than he attends, but the old geezer knows he’s accepted and appreciated. In fact, he’s happiest when Dante asks him to cover his back at parties and shit, even though Nico always insists they take a small detail everywhere they go.
I take the elevator to the floor my father lives on—which is directly under Dante’s—and relax my shoulders as I ring the bell to his apartment.
Even though I moved into his place after my last hospital stay, I officially returned to my apartment on a higher floor yesterday, so ringing the bell feels odd but is the proper way to respect his privacy.
My father opens the door less than ten seconds later, which means he was already heading out.
Three months past his seventieth birthday, my father still moves with the grace of a man far too aware of his surroundings, but the pallor under his natural tan and the slight wheeze at the end of his every exhale have grown worse in the last few weeks. When I noticed his deterioration, I dragged him to the hospital with me for some tests. The doctors said they’d have results for us at today’s visit, but the looks on their faces as they ran the tests told us everything we need to know.
A low whine pulls my attention down to the shaggy mutt at his side. Despite weighing almost as much as a grown man and having never been in danger in his entire life, my father’s dog leans against his upper thigh and shakes.
“Buck up, Scraps. We’re just going for a walk,” my father says.
I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
“What’d you do to poor Scraps, Pops?” I tease.
The dog’s ears perk and his tail nearly knocks my father over as he notices me. He licks my father’s hand, begging for permission to greet me.
“Oh, go on, you ungrateful mutt.” He gestures, releasing over one hundred and fifty pounds of excited canine on me as he grumbles, “Making me look like a stronzo when you know good goddamn well I’ve never lifted a hand toward you.” Despite his downturned lips, amusement shines from his eyes as he shuffles out the door.
I scoot to the far wall, careful not to lift my feet too high and accidentally step on the oversized furball until Pops is no longer in danger of getting whacked by Scraps’ tail, and cross my arms over my chest, refusing to pet the mutt until he stops his antics. Despite jumping around and whining in excitement, he never puts his paws on me or nudges me hard enough to disrupt my balance, so when he finally plants his butt and looks up at me with doleful eyes, I can’t resist. His tail thumps the floor and his entire body wiggles with excitement as I scratch his ears and pet his head.
“You’re as whipped as little Bella, aren’t you, mio figlio?”
“If mia mamma had wanted another trained killer in the house, she’d have left a much different dog in her will. She knew you needed a big softie to take care of when she was gone,” I say.
When I lift Scraps’s leash, he leans against my side but whines and looks to my father. I chuckle when mio papà relents and reaches over to take the lead from me. Scraps gives a happy chuff and prances beside my father until a door opens down the hall. At the reminder that he’s no longer within the safety of his home, the dog’s tail droops and his ears flatten as he sidles closer to my father.
I chuckle and follow them into the elevator.
“If anyone is whipped, it’s you, Pops,” I say.
He enters the elevator, scans his key card, and presses the button for the next floor up before shrugging.
I check my watch but don’t admonish my father about how late we are for our appointment.
Even though the high-rise is the most secure building in the city, I exit the elevator first and scan the receiving hall before crossing the space and pressing the bell. The security system already sent an alert to the Russo apartment—which takes up the entire floor—the moment my father clicked the elevator button, but mia mamma would rise from her grave and slap me stupid if I failed to show such a simple common courtesy.
Bella—Nico’s fourteen-year-old half sister—opens the door within seconds. Her flush and heavy breathing show she ran to the door the moment she saw us on the security camera.
“Scraps! C’mere, cutie pie,” she croons and reaches for the ecstatic dog.
My father drops the leash and smirks despite mumbling, “What am I now, chopped liver?”
“Don’t worry, Pops. Even if you were chopped liver, Scraps wouldn’t eat you. He’s too loyal and sweet,” Bella says in her high-pitched sing-song voice as she hugs and pets the spoiled mutt.
“Watch him for me for a few hours, will you?”
He doesn’t need to ask. Her response is always yes. She squeals as though she just won the lottery and rejoices, talking with Scraps as though he understands every word. By the ecstatic wagging of his tail and the goofy grin on his face, the dummy doesn’t care what’s going on. He’s just happy to be included.
“The oversized bunny is still traumatized from the vet visit last week, so be careful if you take him for a walk,” my father instructs.
“Of course, Pops. I’m always careful with him. Aren’t I, Scraps?”
“Romo, we missed you at dinner last night,” Dante addresses my father as he heads toward us from the living room.
My father and I give slight bows in unison. Dante clasps my father’s shoulders and gives him a peck on each cheek, offering him the traditional Italian greeting.
Concern flashes through Dante’s eyes as he studies my father’s face, but he masks the reaction with a smile.
“Why don’t you come in for a bit? I’m sure Nico and Ermanno have things to catch up on,” he says.
“I would, but I’m taking mio figlio to his doctor’s appointment,” my father lies. My heart churns as he continues. I hate liars, but my father isn’t a backstabbing manipulator. He’s protecting those he cares about by omitting the truth. “We’re just dropping off my sheep in wolf’s clothing so he doesn’t fret himself to death while I’m gone.”
My heart squeezes again over the thought of him no longer being there for Scraps.
Dante earns more of my respect when he doesn’t pry despite the doubts lingering in his eyes. We say a quick goodbye and head to the parking garage. I don’t offer to bring the car around, knowing my father will refuse, and shorten my strides to match his as we cross the brightly lit space.
Halfway across, a coughing fit wracks through my father. I yank the handkerchief from my breast pocket and cover his mouth as I wrap my arm around his back. He accepts my help and cups his gnarled fingers over my hand. When he finally stops half a millennium later, blood covers the white cloth. I wipe his mouth and fold the square, hiding the dark crimson splotches, and tuck it into my back pocket.
“How many times today?” I ask.
“Just now,” he wheezes.
I eye him skeptically. He gestures at the path behind us, indicating how far we’ve walked.
“I’ve been sitting on my ass all day. No chance,” he says.
I usher him into the passenger seat of my car without a word and we drive to the hospital in silence.
I keep my mind carefully blank. He waits until I park to reach across the center console and place his weathered hands over mine.
He may be a criminal according to the law, but he’s always been a damn good father and was a loving husband to mia mamma. Even after her death, he keeps his heart devoted to her.
Equal measures of awe and sadness arrow through me as I study the back of his hands. I hope my tattoos look half as good as his when I’m old and grey, and although I’m on my way to having as many scars as he does, the years’ worth of hard work etched into his knuckles writes the story of his life.
“Look at me, mio figlio,” he demands.
My father did not raise a coward. I meet his eyes without hesitation.
“No matter what the doc says, I’m not getting treatment. I have no regrets about my life or worries about the future. The Russo family is in excellent hands with you as their consigliere. I’m proud of you, mio figlio.”
The angst in my soul fades away, but I send him a challenging quirk of my brow, twist my wrist, and weave my fingers through his.
“You sound like you’re giving up, old man.”
“I’ve abused this body for seventy goddamn years. Hell, it’s a miracle I lived through my teenage years, much less my twenties and thirties and all the way to seventy. Things aren’t the same since your mom left.”
His fingers flex in mine.
“But I’d rather put a bullet in my own head than spend my remaining time in a fucking hospital or watch those I care about mourn me while I’m still here. Capisci?”
I can’t help but smirk at my father’s stubbornness.
“Capisci, Pops. I’ll keep your secret on one condition.”
The moment we open the car door, my father will become the ruthless man who helped build New York City’s most powerful mafia kingdom, so now is my only chance to persuade him. He nods his head, demanding I name my price.
“Take the pain meds and humor me with the noninvasive treatments you can do at home. Ma would roll over in her grave if I let you suffer needlessly.”
He quirks a brow.
“You’re just going to check on me every day if I say no, aren’t you?” he asks.
I answer him with an unwavering smirk. He scoffs and shakes his head as he opens his door.
“You’ve got better things to do than bug your old man.”
“Pops,” I scold.
“Alright, alright. Fucking hell, I’ll shovel whatever drugs they tell me to down my gullet, so you do whatever it is you need to do to get rid of the latest threat to our family. Capisci?”
The same fury boiling in my gut shines in his eyes, and I know he’s thinking about the attacks on Nico and Serenity, so I nod and follow him out of the car.
When the doctor diagnoses my father with lung cancer and gives a prognosis of six months, neither of us flinches.
Nothing matters beyond protecting the ones we love.
Fate’s audacity to take my father from me only increases my fury. Knowing that every second I spend hunting down the conniving, manipulative stronzo who dared threaten the Russo family will pull me away from my father’s waning time on this earth fuels the rage within me.
My don’s command rings in my ears.
Kill them all.
