He stepped up to the covered lump that surely looked to them like a shadowed sack, and before his fingers could touch the sheet the next overhead light flicked on. He did so appreciate a man who paid attention.
In their line of work, it was hard not to realize what that form was under improved lighting. The sheet didn’t quite obscure the chair legs, or the human legs, beneath, and it most definitely did not obscure the slowly expanding pool of blood that continued to drip onto the concrete.
Of course, experienced capos didn’t make shouts or verbal exclamations of shock. They sure as hell weren’t appalled at the notion of a person hogtied under a sheet. So, for a fleeting moment, the room hung in silent, suspended shock.
Then Santino ripped the sheet away, tossing it toward the still-dark edge of the room where his invisible backup lined the wall. But he didn’t watch it flutter; didn’t spare the men he couldn’t properly see any glances. Rather, he faced his capos and clamped a heavy hand onto Tito’s nearest shoulder.
Tito had been slumped forward, still less than fully conscious, and not reacted to the removal of the sheet. So, for good measure, Santino dug two fingers into the sloppily bandaged gunshot wound near Tito’s shoulder. That, of course, woke the little rat right up and had him choking on a scream behind his gag.
Ciro and Freddie remained fairly unmoved by the scene. A flicker of confusion on one face, a flash of calculation on the other.
Aronne had a different reaction. “What the fuck is this?” He swept his arms out so wide he nearly backhanded Freddie. “Boss, Tito’s one of ours!”
That got something out of the other two. Both capos pivoted almost like synchronized dancers, Freddie’s brows finallyleaping up his forehead, so they could better watch Aronne without losing sight of Santino.
Santino kept himself focused forward and his hand on squirming Tito’s shoulder. “Is he now?”
Tito struggled weakly in his restraints. The effort was admirable, considering his broken ribs, blown out knee, and what had to be a minor concussion in addition to the gunshot wound. The little fucker hadn’t so much been sturdy as he had just been hard to pin down. Although even that was only because Santino hadn’t wanted to kill him yet.
Santino squeezed tighter thinking about the ache that was surely representative of a bruise forming on his arm. Nowhere near the worst injury he’d ever taken, or would again, he was sure. But for him to get injured at all the first time he went out for work and left Reiko home was only going to teach her to worry, when he was trying so hard to teach her to be strong and confident.
“He’s part of my crew,” Aronne said, taking a single step forward. “I recruited him myself maybe four years ago. He’s got kind of a mouth on him, sure, but we all do. Whatever he did, he probably didn’t mean anything by it.”
Santino eased his grip, and Tito visibly relaxed. Santino kept his stare on Aronne. “Batting awfully hard for this one, considering you don’tknowwhat he did to piss me off. Sure you wanna put it all on the line?”
Aronne swallowed hard and flicked a nervous glance to Tito. “Obviously,” he finally said, “it’d be good to know. And I don’t mean you aren’t within your rights to punish him how you see fit, Boss. I only meant … maybe it wasn’t what it looked like.”
Santino let his hand drop from Tito entirely and took one deliberate step forward, bringing himself within arm’s reach of Aronne. “Hm. So, you’re suggesting I misjudged the gun heswung in my face,afterwe’d been chatting plenty long enough that it was clear he knew who I was?”
Ciro made an angry sound and Santino lifted a hand, holding him off.
“Or,” Santino continued, “are you suggesting I misheard this piece of shit, right before he pulled that trigger, when he confirmed for me my suspicions?”
Aronne had started to tremble, but it was hard to tell if he was shaking with rage or fear. Or both. “Suspicions?” he whispered.
Santino did not whisper. “‘Thank God we got the Segretis, am I right?’”
An appropriate tension filled the room, the air practically sizzling with each of Ciro’s hard, loud breaths and the subtler rustling of fabric.
Santino didn’t look away from Aronne. He wasn’t completely sure about the loyalty of any man in the room, except for three. Armando, of course, Tito, and Aronne. Tito had sung like a canary when he’d thought it might keep him alive.
Aronne was the one who’d recruited Tito into the Guerra mafia years earlier, and the two had similar enough personalities that they’d built a decent rapport. Aronne gave him preferential treatment beyond what Tito’s experience and skillset might inspire. Tito was also under the impression Aronne had cleaned up a couple of his mistakes over the years, too, to keep him out of trouble. But the information Santino really gave two shits about—as bothersome as the rest was—was when Tito confessed that it had also been Aronne who’d approached him about “a regime change.”
Santino believed the statement because Tito was stupid enough to confess he’d had to Googleregime.
Stupidity didn’t absolve Tito from the punishment coming to him. But leaving the spineless, moronic piece of shit alive longenough for this face-to-face gave Santino more ammunition. And Aronne knew it.
Doing all of this in front of the other capos was just an easy way to gauge the larger group’s loyalty. Risky as fuck, but also definitely faster.
“The Segretis?” Aronne finally repeated, a bit too loudly. He let out a hard, scoffing laugh. “He said that?”
“Not only has he been whispering those foul words to my good, loyal men,” Santino replied, “but he said something arguably more offensive.”
Aronne gave a shake of his head. “I can’t imagine.” He waved an arm toward Tito. “Please, Boss, let me put him out of all our misery. It’s the least I could—”
“He said he got the idea from you.”
Aronne froze.
