Page 57 of Cruel Tyrant

“I understand what I’m asking of you,” Alessandro continues. “Ultimately, this will be Simon’s decision, and if he choose peace over war, I will respect that decision. But I must make my opinion known. As much as I want to avoid this, your Don was nearly killed, and we will look weak and pathetic if there isn’t a response. We have no choice in the matter. Santoro must die, and all of his soldiers must be either killed or banished from our city. I’m sorry, but it’s how things must be.”

He lapses into silence again, this time looking exhausted. Freddie leans over her husband and speaks to him in low tones as Davide gives me a look and steers me away from the group. Simon’s talking with Elena and Laura, and I step out into the hall with my husband.

I touch his hand. He leans against the wall near a window and the two guards give us some space. I can tell he’s anxious, but nowhere near as ruined as he had been earlier in the day, which I guess is a step in the right direction.

“Things are going to get bad,” he says, looking down at the parking lot outside. “Dad wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t important though.”

“Are you sure it has to be a war?” I step closer and touch his hand. “I remember what war’s like. My family just went through one, and it’s awful.” I can still see my brothers, stressed and on edge. I remember Dante’s funeral and the hollow, horrible way my brothers looked standing around his headstone. And in the end, even though they won and killed their enemies, I can’t see how they’re better off.

“It’ll be Simon’s call in the end, but I need you to know something.” He looks at me and pulls me closer. He raises my fingers to his lips. “I’ll keep you safe.”

It hadn’t occurred to me for a second that he wouldn’t. “I know that.”

He nods like he needed to hear me say it and I lean my face against his chest.

War’s coming to the Bianco Famiglia. It feels like I just escaped from one brutal fight, and now I’m thrown back into another, and this time I don’t know what’s going to happen to the people I care about.

Chapter 34

Davide

Emilio flashes me a hand signal from across the street: he’s coming.

I wait in the shadows of an alley that runs between a fancy salon and a deli. It smells like rotting meat and old fucking hair. I bet there are mounds of the stuff in the dumpster, half of it rotting and covered in gel. I shift back and forth, staying light on my feet, shaking out my hands. It’s late and the darkness is thick in this part of town. We came through a few days ago and made sure most of the lights were broken just for this occasion.

A part of me wants to be back home. It’s not a feeling I’m used to. A few months ago, I would’ve been excited for the chance to go to war—this is my chance to show how important I am to the organization. I’m not a businessman, I’m not a lawyer or some great earner, but I can hurt people. I’m great at breaking bones and making men scream. I’m a brutal thug, a knife in the dark, a killer. War should feel like a dolphin at sea. Completely natural.

Instead, I keep thinking of Stefania.

She’s probably worried. We’ve been fucking like my dick’s about to fall off and it’s been the best few days of my life, even though I have a million reasons to stress. My father’s still in the hospital and my family is about to plunge into a brutal, ugly conflict. And yet all I can do is touch my wife, kiss her, taste her, drink her in, wrap my arms around her and hold her tight.

Because I feel safe when I’m deep between her legs.

And I feel right when she’s in bed with me, breathing to my rhythm, wrapped in my sheets.

My fucking wife. When did this even happen? I’m supposed to be cold and emotionless. Instead, I have all these feelings swirling around me, and I like them. That’s the worst part—I like the way I am when I’m with her.

I catch sight of Emilio again. Another gesture and I tense. I hear footsteps coming toward me, walking fast, and I count them in my head. One, two, three, four?—

I throw myself around the corner of the alley and slam my arm out, catching my target right in the throat. It clotheslines him over, throwing his feet out straight into the air, and he slams down onto the hard sidewalk with an ugly thud.

“What the fuck?” he groans as I grab his boot and drag him into the alley.

He starts to struggle. I think he realizes something’s up. I kick him hard in the ribs and he curls into himself. The fucker’s young, in his early twenties, with shoulders like a bull and a gut to match. He’s shorter than me by a head with a trim beard and an immaculate fade. The fucker’s Cubs hat fell off and it sits in a pool of stagnant water.

I stomp him again and kneel on his chest, drawing out a thin knife, flipping the blade in one easy, practiced motion. His eyes widen, his hands hanging in the air as I press it against his throat.

“I have one question,” I ask through my teeth. “Where is Santoro?”

The guy doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. His brown eyes judder around like he might find help, but there’s nobody.

The stupid bastard has a routine. His name is Joey Wick, and he’s one of Santoro’s workers, not quite a Capo, but not a lowly soldier, either. Joey manages a club for his boss near here, and every night after close, he takes his route back to his shitty apartment.

“Better start talking, Joey,” I snarl and press the knife tighter. “Or I’m going to kill you and move on to someone else.”

“I don’t know,” he whispers and his voice comes out harsh. “I’m nobody. I don’t know where the boss is.”

“Start thinking.” I rear back and slam my fist into his mouth. He groans and his head lolls to the side as he spits blood onto the ground. I shove the knife back into position, this time cutting him slightly. “Where is Santoro?”

---