Page 9 of Protected By the Mafia

Cristiano shrugged. “I thought we’d start slow. Since we’d both rather be rid of each other, why not further our mutual agenda?” He sat down on the stool and leaned forward. “Tell me about Gustavo Ramires.”

Tristán’s brow furrowed. “Piss off.”

Cristiano clicked his tongue. “You know how I feel about non-answers. Let’s try one more time. What is Gustavo Ramires’s connection to the Ink Blots?”

The younger male leaned back and stretched out a leg as far as he could, his sock-covered toe sticking past the bars. “Seems like it’s your job to know that kinda shit.”

Cristiano hummed and reached into his pocket for the burner phone. He’d made sure to send himself a couple of images, in preparation for Tristán’s predictable lack of cooperation. Really, it was almost commendable how tight-lipped the little asshole was. Almost. Cristiano let his gaze linger on the screen of the device in his hand. He’d known when he’d snapped the picture what he’d have to use it for, but that didn’t mean he had wanted to.

The image on screen was of Felicity. She looked innocently asleep on the worn-down sofa in her former apartment, her head tipped to one side and her Kindle precariously balanced on her thigh. Her plump curves were perfectly covered by her choice of modest pajamas. Her hair had even still been the slightest bit damp from her shower, though that wasn’t so easily discerned in the low-quality render of the image. The visual spoke of a woman who’d simply worn herself out and crashed before she could get to bed. It was impossible to tell she was chemically sedated.

Cristiano shoved the spark of guilt aside and stood, enlarging the image as much as he could for clarity before turning the device around. “My job,” he said as he stepped up to the cage, “is to acquire information.” He held the phone up to the bars but did not relinquish it.

Tristán’s eyes widened and he shot forward, scrambling onto his knees for a better look. His nostrils flared.

Cristiano carefully lowered himself, keeping the phone steady as he brought his stare level with Tristán’s. “I am free to acquire that information however. I. Want.”

Tristán surged against the cage, crashing into the bars and shoving his face as far forward as the metal allowed. “Piece of shit! You stay away from my sister, you motherfucker!”

That’s what I thought. Cristiano pulled the phone away and tucked it back into his pocket. “So you’d prefer I don’t take her to a room like this one and leave her to sit in her own waste for a few days?” He would never, of course. But the gangster didn’t need to know that. “Or do you just mean I shouldn’t take her to one of the Dragon’s facilities, chain her up, and start in on the torture?”

Tristán seethed, his lips curling and veins popping in his forehead and along the sides of his thin little throat. “Don’t you fuckin’ lay a hand on her, you or that monster!” Spittle sprayed from his lips as he shouted, continuing to try and push himself through the bars.

Cristiano hummed faintly, keeping his expression cooly unbothered. “Then you should start telling me what I want to know.” He dropped a deliberate glance toward his pocket. “Or maybe I’ll pay her another visit tonight, and this time I wake her up…” He was going to have to choke down mouthwash just to get the taste of those words out of his mouth. It had never been so hard to threaten someone, let alone only pretend to threaten someone who couldn’t even hear him.

Tristán roared and reared back like a man possessed, trying once again to shake the bars from their anchors. When they didn’t so much as rattle in place, he slammed himself against them again, chest heaving. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill any stupid fuck who tries to touch her. I’ll—”

Cristiano reached out and grabbed Tristán’s nose, pinching it hard and holding him firmly flush to the bars of the cell. “You aren’t killing anyone from inside this cage, boy. Now start talking before you lose your chance.”

Tristán sucked in a wet breath and threw one arm out, between the bars, trying to swing sloppily in Cristiano’s direction. But he was already breathing hard, his eyes wild from frenzy and having been captive too long. He wasn’t thinking straight enough to do more than slap at one of Cristiano’s arms.

Cristiano held him there long enough to send the pain past the surface before releasing the punk’s nose and standing. “If you make me leave here today without giving me something useful, I come back tomorrow and break one bone in your body for every day you’ve dragged this on.” He narrowed his eyes as Tristán paled. “And in case you’ve lost count, this is day nineteen.”

Tristán stumbled away from the bars, fear draining the color from his face. That was good. That meant he believed the threat.

Cristiano held his stare unflinchingly. He may not have been serious about harming Felicity, but he would absolutely hurt her half-brother. Because he’d been ordered to. Because the little shit had wasted more than two weeks of his time already. Because he’d helped to slaughter two of their soldiers, then proceeded to put a knife to Iris’s throat. And, above all, because when his name had come into the conversation, Felicity had reacted in a way Cristiano hadn’t expected. Not with concern for her sibling, irritation at his behavior, or even by coming to his defense. She’d reacted with fear.

For reasons Cristiano didn’t yet know, his sweet Felicity—who couldn’t bring herself to tell off mouthy customers or leering neighbors—was instinctively afraid of her own brother.

“Gus…” Tristán said, voice weak, as if he were gasping for breath. He dropped his gaze and sank to his knees, fists clenched at his sides. “I knew Gus from when he ran with Manny, way back.”

Cristiano moved backward and lowered onto the uncomfortable stool. “Keep talking.”

Tristán’s brow furrowed and he licked his lips. “After Manny’s crew got busted up, I ran into him again, an’ we got to talkin’, you know? Most of his people were locked up or in the wind, bigger names were honin’ in on our neighborhoods. It was shit.” His hands flexed. A compulsive, nervous habit. “So we decided to push back.”

A beat passed.

Cristiano arched a brow. “I’m not the jumping type,” he said. “Spell it out for me.”

Tristán’s glare returned, still weaker than it had been. “I’m sayin’ we pulled some people together and formed our own fuckin’ gang. It didn’t happen overnight, but it happened.”

Cristiano was silent for a moment. It’d taken significantly longer than it should have, but finally, he’d made his first crack. “So you’re taking credit for forming this new little gang of upstarts. You and Ramires?”

Tristán jerked his chin up as if he were proud. “Yeah. That’s right.”

Meaning there was more to it.

“And your benefactor?”

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