I rolled my shoulders, beyond ready for what was to come.
“What? They sent the Italian equivalent of Moses to come after us?” one of the brothers said when my grandfather looked them over.
“Shut up, Bob!” Rattler almost snarled at him.
“This—” my grandfather lifted a hand at them, speaking in Italian “—this is our enemies.” He shook his head, disgusted. He leaned down, came face to face with the asshole Bob who had opened his mouth.
When Nonno was in his face, Bob’s eyes widened. He tried to move his head as far back from Nonno’s as possible. He couldn’t. He was set against the wall, just as my wife and her cousin had been positioned.
That was why I needed specifics. The dead men would suffer unaccountable times more than my wife and her cousin had.
A commotion was suddenly at the door. Jack rushed through it, two of our men on each side of him. He had a slash across his face that bled freely. A man was escorted in behind him. He looked to be close to seven feet tall, built like a bull, until you got to his thin legs. He wore an old leather cowboy hat, trench coat, and boots. His eyes were ice blue. A scar marred the left one.
No doubt the man was related to the brothers—their father. Ash Green.
“Jack needs medical attention,” I said to no one in particular. “He’s on blood thinners.”
My grandfather nodded at this, gave one of the men instructions to escort the old man to the hospital, even though he was around my Nonno’s age.
As the solider walked Jack out, Jack told me he had come to warn us about Ash, but Ash had gotten to him first. We’d taken Jack and Dolly to the Watt Ranch earlier, expecting the dead men to strike back after what we’d done to their barn. If they came looking for trouble at the Watt Ranch, they would have found Fausti soldiers. It was more of a trap.
“Dolly will be all right at the ranch,” I said.
He nodded. “She’s in good hands.”
Before I could turn back to where the men surrounded Ash, fire seemed to lash against my back, and if I hadn’t been so solid on my feet, I would have gone over. I knew instantly my back had been split open. Blood and sweat instantly made the fire rage higher.
In nothing but seconds, my old man had Ash by the throat, smashing his back against the wall.
“My son,” I heard him say in a voice so cold, it almost seemed like the reason the man’s eyes were ice blue.
Ash’s Indiana Jones style whip had been dropped when my old man had hit him. He had slashed me with it. It had been hanging on the wall. Ash was quicker than he looked and had a chance to grab it.
Marciano whistled through his teeth when he saw the mark it had made, but he said nothing. We shared blood. He knew me. The fire was nothing but a dull reminder in the background. I’d gotten the slash in honor of my woman.
The wound would heal. The scar left behind would be a reminder to the world of the lengths I’d go to to see my wife safe. It would be a reminder to my wife of how I would mark every inch of my skin for her.
My grandfather moved next to my father. I heard the words he said in our shared language. “Remember, my son, a pig’s life for a pig’s life.”
I would have looked at my brother, lifted my eyebrows—I had no fucking clue what my grandfather had meant, but my father seemed to know. My old man let Ash go, and he slid down the wall some before he made an animalistic noise and forced himself to his feet.
Ash was sweating. It ran down his face in fast-running rivers. He removed his hat, his thinning hair sticking straight up, and flung it to the floor. His eyes glanced down, almost surprised the hay was gone. I wondered whether his sons, after they had had enough of the abuse, had started collecting snakes to keep the most dangerous one out—him.
“You are standing as a man,” my father said, giving him a little space, removing his jacket, handing it to Donato, and rolling up his sleeves.
“Oh fuck,” Marciano whispered in my ear.
“Touch one of papa’s cubs…fuck around and find out,” Rio said.
“You will not be standing for long—you will die like the coward you are.”
Ash was still breathless from the choke hold, but he rallied, putting his dukes up, like he was only going to be fighting.
There was a reason why we mostly only fought each other. Not many men could stand against our blows.
My father was going to kill him with his fists.
Ash struck out, and my father allowed him to land the blow. Later, when he was alone with mamma, he’d use this as leverage for her to make over him, put her hands on him in sympathy, or she’d become incensed about the entire situation and the two of them would fight it out.
