“I mean, it makes sense for him to want to get rid of you,” Cesare says, pressing on. “You’ve always been at each other’s throats. Now that he runs your Bratva, he can do whatever he wants.”
Cesare really thinks he knows the full story. Cute.
Sometimes, I wonder if this is how my brother feels when he knows stuff no one else has figured out, when he catches people in naive narratives like that.
I’m no genius, but when I’m bored enough, I put in the work. I gotta hand it to Wolfgang: it’s fun—like watching monkeys banging sticks together when you already know how to build a fire.
“Then again, if Wolfgang wanted to kill you, he could’ve buried you in your own back yard. So, which is it, Mikhail? Are you suicidal, or did you truly underestimate us when you broke in last night?”
Neither. Despite his role in theCosa Nostra, it’s not him I want to be discussing the details with. In my books, Cesare is mostly irrelevant.
“When is Antonio coming back?” I ask.
“If you’re hoping to get a word in with Don Ferrara,don’t. Based on how well this chat is going, I’d bet money on you being dead by that time. You’re fucking annoying.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” I groan, feeling the sting of a wound I didn’t realize I had. “In any case, to hold up my end of the bargain from earlier, I’ll give you a crumb: I’m here for peace. Take me to Antonio, and I’ll tell him what I have in mind.”
It’s Cesare’s turn to laugh this time, but I expected this reaction. I never come in peace. Everyone knows that.
“And until that happens,” I add, growing bored with the useless exchange, “I only want Cecilia. She’s prettier to look at. No offense, of course.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. That look—protective and sharp—makes my teeth grind. What, he fucking cares about her now, after manipulating her to come down here and meet me?
He looks out into the distance, and the sound of boots against stone fills the air, as if his goons were waiting for his signal. Twoassholes come into view, one of them starting to work the lock on my cage.
“Do your worst, gentlemen. Just don’t kill him yet,” he tells them. “In case things weren’t clear, Mikhail, it gets much fucking worse from here. The next time I come down, I won’t be so generous.”
When the first punch lands, I grin through the pain, feeling the tang of blood coating my mouth. It knocks me down, my head hitting the hard cement. I would be worried if I hadn’t taken multiple hits like this throughout my life. It’s just another fucking Tuesday.
A foot slams into my ribs, drawing a cough from my lungs. Then another. And another. Until the spot feels sore, and I spit out blood.
“You kick like a fucking pussy,” I say. “My grandma had more oomph than you.”
My face is pulled from the cement when a hand tangles in my hair. “What did you fucking say?”
“I said…” I spit out on the asshole’s shoes, pushing my arm into the floor to get up. “It’s in poor taste for Cesare to send me two pathetic nobodies who can’t even throw a punch. Frankly, I’m offended by your obvious lack of training?—”
A punch to the nose sends the sound of broken bone echoing through my ears. More blood whooshes out, and I know this one is going to hurt like a motherfucker as it heals.
But the pain is euphoric for now. It’s my drug, my companion, my lifeline. It’s the only thing I’ve known to be ever-present, which is why I’ve clung to it from a young age like a psychopath.
Images of my mother showing up in a cell like this with her bodyguards flash through my mind. She’d drag me into similar situations so I could ‘toughen up’.
The memory should numb me, but all it does now is fire me up.
In the end, her plan worked.
And now, we are who we are.
6
Cecilia
“Are you in love?” Ms. Donatello, my piano teacher, asks. Every word drips with a particular tartness she uses when she feels her time is being wasted. “No? Then what? Are you bored, Cecilia? Or do you have something better to do today?”
Her brows rise beneath her thick bangs, expecting some sort of explanation for my lack of focus. After years of studying under her tutelage, I’m still terrified of displeasing her. When she gets mad, she gets furious, making sure you remember not to make the same mistake again.
But what am I supposed to tell her?
