Alfredo, who tended to stab people who called him by his proper name, was one of Santino’s capos. And while Santino was less than certain who was still in line with him on the Guerra vs Segreti front, he was fairly confident that outwardly they were invested in keeping the family strong. Otherwise, what would the point be of a hostile takeover? So, for the job he’d needed, Freddie was qualified. Of that, Santino had no doubts.
Osamu sucked in a breath as Hiroto attempted to pull himself to his feet.
Santino closed the distance that had built between them in easy strides and landed a hard punch straight to Osamu’s gut.
Osamu doubled over, stumbling practically into his son before dropping to his knees. A bit of bile dribbled past his lips and caught on his chin.
Hiroto angled to the side, his voice raspy and feeble from the strangulation already showing on his neck. “Father!” He turned a frightened glare up at Santino, and what was probably meant as an admonition came out like a plea. “You can’t do this.”
Santino dropped into a crouch in front of the pair. “Sure I can. You’re weak.” He rocked to his feet and shot out a leg, kicking the little shit straight in the face and sending him sprawling backward. Blood sprayed the air.
Osamu made a noise of protest.
“Now, let me explain to you the depth of your problem here, Osamu.” Santino grabbed the man by the nearest sleeve and hauled him up and away from the bleeding manchild. When their gazes clashed, Osamu’s wild and desperate, Santino continued. “Reiko is mine now, which means any threats against her I take not only seriously, butpersonally. Because you’re not only threatening a woman you despise, you’re threatening the woman I’m going to marry—you’re threatening the future of the whole Guerra family. So, Osamu, when you thought you’d stretch your wallet and playmafioso, you made a big mistake.” He let his tone harden. “You crossed a real one.”
The naturally shorter man wilted like a dying flower, shrinking in Santino’s hold as horror settled on his face.
Hiroto groaned, the sound full of pain. “Tou”—he coughed and tried again—“Oto-san?”
Osamu tensed and snapped his head around. “Damare!”
Santino clicked his tongue, pivoted on his heel, and tossed Osamu to the floor. “It’s rude to talk about someone in front of them in a language they don’t speak.”
“Hiroto was just calling for his daddy,” Reiko offered from across the room. “Who told him to shut up.” There was an amused smile toying with her lips when Santino glanced her way, and the sight of it lightened his chest.
He tipped his head to her. “Beautiful and helpful. Fucking perfect.” He dropped the heel of his shoe onto Osamu’s shoulder and ground it down with his full weight. “Shame we couldn’t get along, Pops.” He leaned onto his punishing leg, the music of Osamu’s pained groan as it leaked out through a visibly clenched jaw pulling a terrible smile to his lips. “What was that? Something you wanted to say?”
Shuffling behind him alerted Santino that Hiroto may finally have started thinking past the bump on his head.
Reiko gasped.
Santino twisted on instinct, worried the fucking dimwit had tried going for her, and a stapler sailed past where his head had been. A damn handheld stapler.
The momentum caused the already-unsteady Hiroto to topple forward and crash on top of his father, who took more damage than Santino probably would have from the boy’s weakly wielded weapon of choice. The scene was fucking hilarious, so Santino tipped his head back and released a loud, mocking laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d personally dealt with such amateurs.
Well, arguably Charles had been an amateur. That was hardly the point.
“Junior, that was the funniest fucking thing I’ve seen all week,” Santino said, toeing the dropped stapler out of reach. “Lame as shit, but funny.”
One of them grunted, then the other, and Hiroto managed a wheezy, “Fuck you.”
Santino’s grin only broadened. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” He bent down, grabbed Hiroto by the back of his shirt, and heaved the younger male sharply into the front side of Osamu’s desk. Again, Hiroto’s head took a blow. Again, blood smeared. Again, the boy went limp.Weak.
“P-please,” Osamu said, already begging, as he fought to push himself to his knees. “Please, don’t kill my boy. Hiroto’s just a child. A good son. He’s only done what he was asked—what he was raised to do.”
Santino rounded back on the infuriating man and dropped into a crouch, bringing them closer to eye-level. He tilted his head. “He’s twenty-three and plenty well-educated enough to know that there were a shit-ton of legal repercussions waiting if your hitman squealed. Not that that matters, because neither of you has to worry about the law now.” He slipped his hand to his back, tugged up his shirt, and extracted the toy he’d brought along for the occasion. If Reiko had felt it through the fabric earlier, she hadn’t reacted. Regardless, he suspected she would appreciate the poetry.
Osamu’s eyes widened as Santino lifted the serrated steak knife. The print on the base of the steel was faded enough to show the blade was less than new, and that made it better.
Without breaking from the bastard’s stare, Santino said, “I pilfered this from Reiko’s kitchen before we left. She’s not going to need that old set anymore, so I thought, since we’re having this family reunion, we might as well do it with a bang.”
Osamu opened his mouth as Santino lunged. The old man didn’t move fast enough. They toppled together to the floor, Santino’s free hand clamping down on Osamu’s mouth to muffle his scream even as the knife tore through fabric and bit roughlyinto flesh and muscle. It was not a smooth process. Osamu did not hold still.
Santino used his legs to better pin him, pushed Osamu’s head into the floor with the hand still pressing against his disgustingly salivating mouth, and adjusted his grip on the knife handle so he could dig it in deeper. The second wave of muted, agonizing screaming was worth the slobber. He held himself still, let the bastard’s blood puddle up and coat his fingers as it rolled to the floor.
Finally, Osamu seemed to compose himself just a bit, and Santino removed his hand from the man’s mouth. He took the time to wipe it dramatically on the shoulder of Osamu’s shirt, where no other stains were yet present, and met the old man’s strained stare. “You know what this is, don’t you?” He tapped the handle of the blade with one bloodied finger. “This is karma, motherfucker.” He leaned fully over the man, getting in his face. “This is where her scar is from the day she nearly died, trying to become what she thought you wanted her to be.”
Osamu’s face twisted, confusion and outrage mixing with the agony, but all he did was breathe a little heavier.
