“You motherfuckin’ rat!” Ciro exclaimed, moving so he could draw his gun without putting Santino in the line of fire.
Freddie pulled his gun, too, and mirrored Ciro’s position. “We don’t work for the fuckingSegretis, you piece of shit.”
Aronne’s eyes blew wide and his head snapped from side-to-side. He slid a single foot back. “I didn’t— He’s lying! Obviously, the little fucker is lying!” His panicked eyes crashed onto Santino’s. “Please, Boss, you gotta believe me.”
Santino tucked his hands into his pockets. “I want to, Aronne,” he said, because he had wanted to. “But the thing about idiots is, they’re actually very convincing in their honesty.” He tilted his head toward Tito. “And when this guy thought he was about to die, he had a lot to say. Like how you’ve been up to more than a little shit I have very expressly forbidden.”
Aronne finally paled, his arms slowly lowering.
Santino continued. “I mean, it’s funny, I think, how a made man can complain about my allegiance with another mafia family, when that very allegiance actually happenedbeforetheidiot running his mouth joined up with me. Almost feels like he’s spewing someone else’s script at that point, doesn’t it?” A script he suspected they’d all gotten from Danilo, but of course, Tito hadn’t had that information.
The signs continued to point that way, though.
Aronne sucked in a hard breath and raised his chin in defiance, proving Santino’s unspoken point. “Whatever I am to you at work, and whatever suspicions you have, don’t forget I am also your nephew’s godfather.”
Indeed, you are.“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” Santino said, forcing a familiar faux-levity into his voice. “But, you see, I don’t care.” He paused, turned toward Tito again, and continued the thought. “No, I take that back. Idocare. I think I don’t want a disloyal, filthy bastard like you having any goddamn thing to do with the emotional or psychological development of the future of theGuerrafamily.” He stepped around behind Tito and roughly yanked the dirty socks they’d used as a gag from the man’s mouth. “So, traitors one and two, any last words? Perhaps you’d like the mercy I will offer if you tell me every single person working alongside you to overthrow me?”
Tito sobbed as Santino’s hands settled just shy of his neck. “I-I know a few!”
Hardness overtook Aronne’s face. “There’s only one name that matters,” he said, seemingly giving up the charade of innocence. He raised one arm out at his side, index finger extended toward Ciro. “It’s not just me.”
Santino frowned.
Freddie’s eyes widened, flicking between Aronne and Ciro before finally sliding toward Santino.
Ciro growled low in his throat and for a moment, Santino was sure he would shoot Aronne dead right on the spot. Instead, he pulled his arms back, took the barrel of his gun off his former fellow … and raised it to his own head.
Aronne’s extended arm fell back to his side as if suddenly deflating.
Santino let both brows raise. “Ciro?”
“I ain’t no rat, Boss.” He stood up as tall as his five-foot, ten-inch height allowed and squared his shoulders, gun never wavering. “Give me the order and I’ll pull the trigger.”
That was a predicament Santino hadn’t expected to find himself in. It wasn’t exactly a fool-proof gamble, after all. Ciro could be counting on the gesture being convincing enough, or figuring that death at his own hands would be less bad than death at Santino’s. He could also be being unfairly accused by a desperate piece of shit.
Aronne scoffed. “Nice bluff. Even Santino will see through that.”
Santino snapped his stare back the other way. “The fuck did you just say?”
Aronne met his stare, a flash of bewilderment crossing his face before his lips lifted in a sneer. “I don’t see a point playing your soldier now.” He turned his head and spat on the ground. “I answer to someone else.”
Santino released Tito and strode forward, anger beating a war drum in his ears as Aronne kept talking.
“And I won’t be answering a single one of your pathetic fucking questions. Go whine to your precious Drag—”
Santino closed the last few feet between them in a sudden burst of speed, spinning and delivering a sharp kick to the asshole’s solar plexus that shut him the fuck up for a delightful moment. Aronne stumbled back, knees buckling and arms going around his middle, but Santino didn’t let up. Their conversation was done.
Loyalty almost always came out when the violence started, anyway.
So, he swung his fists, once again improperly protected for delivering a beating, and a grin finally split his face at the first bone that crunched beneath his knuckles. Blood sprayed from Aronne’s lips as his head snapped sideways, splattering across the floor.
No one moved to help the man. No bullets pierced the air, or bit into Santino’s flesh.
Aronne cried out and positioned his arms defensively, trying to curl in on himself. As almost an after-thought, he hurled his body to the side as if attempting a shoulder-slam.
Santino took hold of Aronne’s arm, pivoted, and pitched the man entirely over himself in a near perfect over-the-shoulder throw. Aronne’s back cracked loudly on the hard floor of the warehouse, the man’s echoing outcry the only sound carrying over it, and Santino laughed low. The dumb fuck should really have gone for his gun or at least a blade. He could never match Santino hand-to-hand.
“I’ve been beating your ass in combat since I was nineteen,” Santino taunted, dropping into a crouch with his knees spread wide and leaning forward so Aronne could see his face. “What the fuck were you thinking, egging me on? You miss the feel of my knuckles breaking your bones that much?”
