The sounds that reverberate off the walls are animalistic, but I don’t care. I want him to feel unimaginable pain before we end him. He will tell us who the mole is or die a gruesome death.
“Okay.Vabene,” he pants with tears leaking from his eyes. The reddened skin on his forehead bubbles and blisters as he moans and cries, and trickles of blood pool between his legs. “It was Brando,” he rasps, his eyes darting sideways.
Mateo and I exchange a brief look. I see my thoughts reflected in his eyes.He’s lying.Mateo nods, and I agree. We won’t get anything out of this cunt. I shrug as I light up the torch again. “Your funeral.”
“You won’t get away with this,” he shrieks. “My father will know it was you! You’ll be following me to hell.”
“Nah.” Mateo smirks as he slams his knife into Carlo’s thigh, purposely avoiding the femoral artery.
“Unlike you, we know how to execute a plan to a satisfactory conclusion.” I jerk my head to the right, gesturing at the small table where five kilos of cocaine sit in packaged bricks. No money traded hands, so it’s an obvious gift. While there is no way of telling where it came from, it’s existence in the place where his mutilated body will be found will be enough to cause suspicion.
“Let’s gut this motherfucker,” Mateo says, all out of patience. His bloodthirst is showing, and my bloodlust rushes to the surface, ready to inflict pain.
Together, we destroy him, ripping him apart with our knives, savaging into his body, every thrust a strike for Natalia and every other woman this bastard has ever hurt. When his guts are hanging out and his flesh is so torn all you can see is bones, I finish him off with the blow torch, enjoying the smell as his body burns. Mateo stops me before I reduce him to ash. We want Don Greco to suffer when he sees him because that motherfucker is every bit as sick and twisted as his son.
I call Frank and Ian down to help with the cleanup. My brother looks pale, but he says nothing, searching the ground for our shell casings, while Mateo and I strip out of our blood-soaked clothes. Ian pukes in a plastic bag, and Mateo and I grin at one another, brothers in arms. “For the record, I have kissed Natalia. Nothing more. I swear I haven’t touched her inappropriately.” I feel the need to say it before Mateo remembers and takes a swing at me.
“Not here,” he growls, narrowing his eyes at me.
I nod as I throw the five-liter bottle of water over my head, washing away the last of the blood. Then I dry off and dress in clean clothes, gathering up our ruined garments to dispose of at the incinerator later.
After we have removed all trace of evidence and checked the coast is clear, we slip out of the warehouse and head home.
21
Leo
“You did what?” Angelo roars, thumping his closed fist on the desk, before whipping his gun from its holster and pointing it first at Mateo and then me. “Are you both out of your goddamned minds?”
“He hurt Natalia, Papa,” Mateo says, his tone even, his expression betraying no trace of fear. Mateo has matured a lot since his mother died. I think Angelo’s threat about having another option forced him to wise up too.
“He disrespected her and humiliated her,” I add. “Exposing her to his men, and he would have taken it all the way if it wasn’t for her quick thinking.”
Pain flickers across Angelo’s face, but he doesn’t lower the gun, his aim alternating between us. A stream of Italian curses leaves his lips, but his anger hasn’t ebbed. Not in the slightest. “You should’ve come to me with this!” he barks. “I would have dealt with it the appropriate way. This will start a war I don’t want!”
“Only if Don Greco discovers it was us who killed Carlo,” I say.
“Which he won’t,” Mateo supplies. “Because we were careful and we did a thorough cleanup.”
“There’s more,” I blurt, remaining calm in the face of his father’s rage.
“Sit,” Angelo snaps, and we sink into chairs without hesitation.
“We caught him arranging a deal with the Columbian cartel,” I say, removing the pictures from the large brown envelope in my hand. I slide them over.
Angelo finally puts the gun down on his desk to look through the pictures. We purposely waited until this morning before coming to the boss to make sure we had our ducks in a row. We stayed up all night developing the pictures in the small darkroom at my parents’ apartment.
My mom is an avid photographer, and I used to love developing pictures with her when I was younger and had the time to indulge in such things.
“We don’t know if he was working alone or on Don Greco’s instructions,” Mateo says.
Angelo’s face turns troubled. “Merda.” He is quiet as he flips through the pictures, and we hold our breath, waiting to see what he does. We have suggestions, but it is better if he draws the same conclusions himself.
“He told everyone he was meeting Accardi,” I say, letting the words sit there.
Angelo glares at me, and I gulp over the ball of nerves lodged at the back of my throat. “Who else knows about this?”
“Natalia,” Mateo says. “She knew we were going to handle this, and she has seen the reports on the news this morning.” All the major news channels are reporting the deaths of five made men at an abandoned warehouse at Port Newark, but the news hit too late to make the newspaper headlines. I imagine it will be splashed all over the front pages tomorrow.
