“James Arturo. We tailed him, picked him up four blocks away from the library, before he realized he had a tail. He’s downstairs.”
Thankfully, Matteo knows his job well. “Bene(Good).”
“Do you want me to—”
“I’ll take it from here.” I’m already rolling the sleeves of my T-shirt. My fingers are shaking as I do so, eyes burning with a rage that surprises even me. But it’s not jealousy. That, I’m sure of.
It is nothing but operational control. Setting boundaries.
There’s a flicker of surprise in Matteo’s eyes before they go blank, and he walks out the door. Matteo was one of my father’s few loyalists and has been with me since he helped me take over the mafia. He should know I don’t like people touching—no, even eyeing—what’s mine.
The buzz from staff in the offices swallows me whole once I leave my office, passing through a lonely hallway before entering through a door that leads to the basement.
The stench of blood and rust hits my nostrils as I enter the space. There are rusted old sinks with water that doesn’t run clear, blood-stained white tiles, and a small table with torturing equipment on top. Two buff guards are on either side of the bastard who’s sitting in a chair, tied with ropes and bruised in ways I think is too little. Probably just the struggle with the tailing.
When I get to him, I lean down, close to his face. His pupils are unequal, pointing to a concussion, but something even more interesting piques my attention. He doesn’t flinch when I raise my hands to his face.
He’s been in this situation before. I’m starting to doubt that he’s just a random person interested in Isabella.
“Per background check, what do we have on him?” I ask Matteo without taking my eyes off the man.
“He’s a gambler and works as a dockman. No relatives or history of anything worth mentioning.”
I try to search his face for more but he seems to be a mask of indifference. Not for long! Gripping the edge of the wooden chair, I growl, “What did you want with my wife?”
“N-nothing, I swear. She’s pretty and I just—”
My knuckles collide with his jaw. He groans loudly, his head whipping to the side on impact.
I fist his dirty collar, my voice coming out in pants, “She’s not yours to look at.”
His eyes widen at how my knuckles brush the side of his head.
“I swear man. I just wanted to talk to her…” he stutters, but I drown out his words. The vein on his temple is pounding under my fingers. He’s lying.
Anger gnaws at my chest, and I want nothing more than to snap his neck, but I need answers first. I straighten my spine and motion to one of the guards to bring the tray.
In a breath, the tray is passed, and I take a cigar and a lighter, putting it to my lips and lighting it. James watches me tensely as I take a drag, which barely unfurls the edge in my chest, and exhale.
I need a slow, burning torture for this bastard. I’ll show him what happens when he tries to mess with my wife. And I’ll showher…what happens if she ever does decide to foolishly give anyone else a piece of her.
“Record this.” My voice echoes deadly in the room. James’ eyes widen as I raise the lit end of the cigar to his skin. Then his words stop me.
“I-I was told to—” he blurts, fear clotting his eyes.
My lips curve in a frown. Someone did tell him then.
“Who?”
“I-I don’t know his name.” He eyes me, then the cigar again. “I met him by the fish market. H-he paid me a huge sum to—”
“What did he ask you to do?”
He swallows and releases a heavy breath. “P-please I can’t tell—”
Clenching my jaw, I find a half-healed wound on his arm and press the lit end of the cigar inside. He screams, the noise striking my ear with an intensity only a coward can pull.
Irritation pinches my skin. I hate noise. It muddies my questions. I continue the assault, switching the cigar with a small gun-shaped lighter that allows the fire to dart straight into his skin.
