Page 25 of Falling for the Enemy

No matter how many blows I delivered or how deep the designs that I carved into his flesh via a red-hot blade were, he held strong for hours, valiantly refusing to spill a single of La Famiglia’s secrets.

Including where Stefano is hiding.

Loyal to a capo who doesn’t deserve such unwavering allegiance, agonized screams and indecipherable curses each time I drew blood or snapped a bone were the only sounds to leave the young mafioso’s mouth.

Everyone has a breaking point. But after hours of doling out pain, I failed to find my nameless captive’s before his heart unexpectedly stopped, taking whatever information he possessed to the grave with him.

It’s another first for me.

Angry at myself over such failure, an unacceptable outcome for someone in my position, I whip my arm, flinging my knife across the room. With a resounding clank, it crashes against a cinder block, knocking a chunk of concrete free of The Blue Ocean’s basement wall. Tempted to shove my hand through it as well, I rake my blood-stained hands through my hair, tugging on the strands.

“Jesucristo, Jefe.”

Beside me, Benito, who’s just arrived, plunges a mop into a filled bucket, the sound of the sloshing water conjuring memories of a past I don’t wish to revisit. Tell me, chico, how long can you hold your breath? My chest burns as Melendez’s haunting voice echoes through my head.

His unrelenting grip.

The taste of warm saltwater.

My burning lungs and silent screams.

“And I thought I was a twisted bastardo,” my lieutenant continues, his voice helping me to push away the memory, locking it back in its mental cage. “How many times did you hit the pendejo?” He assesses the Italian’s busted face. “And what’d you use? A fucking brick?”

I ignore his asinine question.

He knows I didn’t use a brick.

Only my hardened fists.

I lift my chin and gesture to the mafioso’s extended arms and bound hands. Attached to the ceiling by a length of thick rope, his battered corpse continues to sway, the tips of his cut toes scraping the cold floor.

“Cut him down and have Javier bring down a couple of gallons of bleach, along with the pressure washer. We’re going to need a lot more than a mop to clean this filth up.”

Gripping the mop’s wooden handle, he nods and remains unmoving, ignoring my order. The only one of my men to ever dare question me, he lifts his chin. “Did you find out anything useful?”

Again, I don’t answer.

There’s no need.

Reading my silence correctly, he shakes his head and slams the soaked mop head against the filthy ground. “Stefano fucking DeMeo.” The hatred that bleeds from his tone rings loud and clear. “When we find that hijo de puta, I swear I’m going to enjoy making him—”

“Stefano is mine.” I whirl on him, nostrils flaring, and slam my clenched fist against my heaving chest, emphasizing my point. “Mine to torture, and mine to kill.”

Benito doesn’t argue.

Having been at my side since he was ten and I was twelve, he understands my need to hurt, then ultimately end the man who threatened my sister’s life. More so than anyone else. Like me, he had a sister once. But unlike Carmen, Quintana’s gone.

Has been for years.

“For what he’s tried to do to Carmen and Manzana both—”

That same feeling of possessiveness that grips me, nearly stealing my breath each time I think of Arianna hits me straight in the chest, the blow harder than any one-two punch I’ve ever received when he sneers, his face twisting.

My hackles immediately rise.

“You need to let me handle that puta,” he says, treading dangerously close to the point of no return. “You don’t, and she’s going to cause problems.” Vision tunneling, my throat tightens. If my lieutenant has a shred of common sense, he’ll silence himself. The problem is, he doesn’t. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. Painless even. A simple bullet—”

I’m on him before he can finish.

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