Page 93 of Capo

Twenty-Nine

Luciano

Ivan comes darting into the kitchen. I’m in the middle of a lunch meeting with the architect I’ve hired, but if Ivan has that look, then it’s important and I hold up a hand, silencing the other man.

“Boss. One of the pilots—” His eyes are wide. My badass enforcer looks fucking scared.

“What about him?” I gesture for the architect to leave. “We’ll finish this later. Ivan, sit.”

He remains standing. “He talked.”

I frown and shrug. “About what?”

“He’s here, in the club room, all roughed up.”

I stand. “Yes? Speak for fuck’s sake!” Pushing open the door, I move toward the club room. Already from afar I can discern upset voices. Ivan half-runs behind me.

“He was tortured. He spilled the location of Chloe!”

My heart almost stops before it begins to hammer furiously. My people don’t talk. They keep quiet even if it costs them arms and legs and their fucking lives. In the next moment I storm into the club room. A group of men stand around the couch. In it sits Emmett, one of my pilots. His bloodied face is barely recognizable beneath the bruises and swellings. He’s got both hands in bandages and his clothes are in rags. One of his pant legs is soaked in blood.

I sit on the table before him and cock my head, studying him. So we didn’t get everyone after all, the Russians. “How are you holding up?” I ask, making my voice soft, cajoling him into a feeling of safety. I gently put a hand on his upper arm. “Did someone give him something for the pain?”

“On it, Boss,” says one of the men next to me and dashes behind the bar. He returns with two white pills in his hand and a glass of water with a straw in it. I take it and look at Emmett’s hands that are completely useless.

“Open your mouth.”

Emmett obeys and I put the pills on his tongue, holding up the straw close to his lips. He drinks greedily and then swallows with a grimace.

“Percocet, Boss,” says the man who fetched the pills.

I cut him a glance. “Good boy.” Turning back to Emmett, I frown. “What happened? Tell me everything. It’s all right. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Whatever it is, it’s obvious you fought back.”

“I did, Boss,” he groans. He holds up his bandaged hands. “They cut off my fingers,” he whimpers.

I wince. Getting my fingers cut off comes only second to getting my cock severed on my list of shit that’s not gonna happen to me. “What did they want?”

“They wanted to know where the woman was.”

My insides grow cold. “They did, huh? When was this?”

“I fought, Boss!”

I pat his shoulder. “I know you did. Shh, it’s all right. What did you tell them? When?”

“I tried. I really tried!”

“You’re a good boy. Of course, you did. What did you tell them?”

“I—last night. I’ve been unconscious. I called as soon as I woke. They threatened my kid!” he moans. “They said they’d rape her to death, Boss. Please!”

Thinking about the men who attacked Chloe, disgust bordering on nausea rises in me. His kid is sixteen. Still, he knows he can’t talk. Last night. Fuck. They’ve had plenty of time to send people to Sicily. Especially if they already have people in place in Europe. The hair rises on my nape.

“Did you tell them where you took Chloe?” I ask silkily.

He slumps against the backrest and nods. “I’m so fucking sorry, Boss.”

“It’s okay,” I say as I reach inside my jacket, pull out my Beretta and shoot him twice between the eyes. Everyone jerks except Ivan who damn well knew what I needed to do. I can’t have snitches in my ranks, I can’t overlook dissent.

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