Page 16 of Rescued By the Mafia

Iris let her gaze wander toward the nearest security camera, sure her escort had seen every second of their conversation. She chewed on her lips for a moment before dragging some of her focus back to her job. Maybe it wasn’t that she didn’t believe in love. Maybe she just needed to be shown the way again. And maybe Dante could be the one to show her, if she let him.

Romeo was waiting by the door when Dante pulled up, and he wasted no time launching into the topic of the hour. “I hear you moved a pretty redhead into your place last night.”

Dante tossed his suit coat into the SUV, slammed the door, and started working on the top buttons of his dress shirt. He had a certain image he liked to maintain when he went to work, after all. To his brother, he said, “Her name is Iris and I’ll expect you to be respectful to her from now on.”

“Right, Mother mentioned that, too,” Romeo said. “Seems to me we met a pretty, redheaded Iris who caught your eye recently. You didn’t move in on your own employee, did you, big brother?”

Dante slid a sideways glare at his sibling. “She won’t be keeping that job long and that’s all you need to know.” He started toward the closed door in front of them. “Tell me the situation inside.”

Romeo sighed with disappointment. “Looks like we nabbed a runner. He probably doesn’t know what we’re really after, but right now he thinks he’s being tough. He’s only told us he runs with a group of fools calling themselves the Ink Blots.”

Dante stopped and looked over his shoulder at his brother. “The what?”

Romeo rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Ink Blots is what he keeps saying. I might’ve ad libbed the ‘group of fools’ part.”

Dante grunted and continued toward the doorway, and the stairs beyond it, that waited ahead. He had a list of important things to get done and interrogating dipshit punks had not been on that list when he’d woken up. Behind him, Romeo and the two men who’d come along as Dante’s backup trailed one-by-one down the steps. In the basement, Romeo’s team kept the room secure.

The dipshit was sitting in a cheap chair in the middle of the room, arms tied behind his back and legs tied to the chair legs. The zip-ties at his wrists would be secured to the back of the chair as well, as was their practice, though Dante couldn’t actually see that detail from his angle. Chains hung from the ceiling overhead and the far wall of the space held a long shelf bearing plenty of toys to help conversations like these ones move a little faster. The dipshit himself showed only superficial wounds and signs of chafing around his shins from an earlier struggle. He lifted his head, left eye darkened from the warning punch he’d already have received, and curled his lip as if he were disgusted. If he were old enough to drink Dante would have been surprised.

But Dipshit’s age didn’t matter. It was his choice of occupation that garnered him this one-on-one.

Romeo and the other two spread out behind him as Dante continued forward, not stopping until he was close enough to spit on the boy in the chair. He kept his expression calm, eyes faintly narrowed, and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

Dipshit scoffed roughly. “Better question is, do I fuckin’ care?”

Dante let his lips lift, slowly, at the edges. “Oh, you fucking do.” He made a show of rolling up his shirt sleeves, not breaking eye-contact. “I hear you run drugs for a bunch of up-and-coming morons calling themselves the Ink Blots.”

Smug amusement settled on Dipshit’s face. “That’s right, old man. Newark is our city now. You an’ your crew better bend the fuckin’ knee.”

A familiar chill built inside him, burning like ice through his veins. Dante stared down at his captive. “Your mouth is doing a lot of moving, but I’m not hearing anything valuable. This is your last chance to tell me who’s running your little gang of idiots and stepping their toes onto my turf.”

Dipshit drew his head back and his lips parted as a nauseating hrrrrk filled the air.

Dante shot his arm out, shoving his hand up and under Dipshit’s jaw, thereby forcing his mouth shut. The unmistakable spitting sound ceased and Dipshit started struggling anew, trying to cough despite the pressure of Dante’s unrelenting hand at the base of his jaw. Dante squeezed, making sure the boy knew who had the advantage, until the first spark of fear lit Dipshit’s dark eyes. “Now, you technically didn’t answer me before, so consider your next words carefully.”

Dipshit sucked in ragged breaths of air as soon as Dante let go, leaning as forward in his seat as he was able, his face flushed and his chest heaving. “F-fuck you, old man!”

Dante hummed low, rolled his neck, and held out one hand. “Well, if you won’t talk to me, I’ll need you to deliver a message.” He watched Dipshit go pale when one of the men in the room stepped forward and placed a handheld torch in Dante’s outstretched hand.

“Wh-what the fuck are you gonna do with that?” Dipshit asked.

Dante ignored him and made a vague swirling gesture with the pointer finger of his free hand, indicating the fool’s upper body. “Get rid of that. It’ll be in my way.”

“Yes, Boss,” one of his men said quickly. The man moved swiftly forward, sliding a blade from one of his pockets.

“Wait,” Dipshit said, eyes darting between the approaching man with the knife and Dante’s torch. “Fuckin’ wait! Don’t—”

Another of Dante’s men stepped up from the opposite side, grabbing hold of Dipshit’s head and forcing it back. The motion once again held Dipshit’s mouth shut, providing a moment of reprieve from his building panic. But only a moment, as once more he started to struggle. Forgetting, apparently, that he couldn’t escape his binds. The entire chair jolted and it became clear he was attempting to rip his legs free by snapping the legs themselves off.

Like no one had tried that before.

The man with the knife jerked Dipshit’s shirt up, away from his body, and swiftly drew the blade through the fabric. Dipshit’s poor attempt at spastic flailing screeched to a halt when he realized the blade was perilously close to his face. Then the shirt fell to the sides, exposing Dipshit’s heaving, sporadically tattooed torso.

Both of Dante’s men immediately retreated, fading again into the background.

Dipshit’s head twisted from side to side, his eyes wide and his pupils blown as he tried to figure out what was going on.

Dante checked the setting on his torch to verify that no one had tampered with it, then depressed the trigger. The distinctive sound captured Dipshit’s attention effortlessly.

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