Page 9 of Assistant to the Mafia

They stepped from the vehicle and Romeo led the way up to the seemingly unguarded door. He dropped his fist once against the surface and waited impatiently while the men inside responded. The door was pulled open promptly.

“Afternoon, sir,” the guard at the door said with a nod.

Romeo nodded back. “Where’s the dirtbag?”

“Collecting dust in the basement, of course,” Ryoma said as he emerged from main hall. The Japanese man grinned and offered a partial wave in a greeting entirely uncustomary to the culture he had actually been born in. But then, as far as Romeo knew, every single thing about the man was atypical. For one thing, it wasn’t every day an Italian mafia family took in a guy who’d once been yakuza.

Romeo waited until the door was shut behind him again, Mo’s presence familiar and reassuring at his back. “Mikey says you’re the one who brought him in.”

“Caught him in the act,” Ryoma confirmed. He made a tsking sound. “Don’t know what there is to get out of the guy, but I left him for you.”

Romeo rolled that over for a second. Normally Ryoma was Cristiano’s veritable partner-in-crime, and Cris was the family’s go-to enforcer. Romeo certainly wasn’t incapable, but he knew when someone else was better than him at something. He met Ryoma’s stare again. “You’re with me.” He made a single flick of a motion with his hand. “Mo’s in charge up here ‘til I’m done.”

“Yes, sir,” the men in the room responded.

Romeo continued forward, angling past Ryoma to take the lead again. They moved down the hall and down the steps that descended into the basement, where he found exactly what he expected. Two more guards, stoically keeping watch over the punk who’d been caught tagging Dante’s warehouse. The punk himself was sitting on the floor, wrapped in chains around the torso with his ankles zip-tied and a gag over his mouth.

The punk gangster lifted a glare to him as Romeo stepped into his line of sight. He attempted to say something, the glare insinuating it was some kind of curse, but the gag muffled every syllable.

Romeo rolled his eyes. “Get the gag off. Obviously, our friend here can’t talk with his mouth covered.”

Ryoma obligingly stepped forward and tugged the bunched fabric free, letting it fall to the gangster’s lap.

“Fuck you,” the guy said to Ryoma. He returned his glare to Romeo. “Fuck you, too, De Salvo.”

Romeo let a slow smirk lift his lips. “Oh, so you know who I am?” He tugged up his pants and dropped into a crouch, lowering himself to eye-level. “That should make this easier, then.” He held out one hand, palm up, never breaking eye-contact. “Get me something solid.”

The gangster’s eyes widened as he watched movement beyond Romeo’s peripheral vision, seconds before something heavy was set in Romeo’s palm.

Romeo pulled it forward so they could both see it. “Ball-peen, nice.” He rolled the hammer around until he found the right grip and waved the heavy-duty top end in front of the nameless gangster’s face. “So, let’s start with something easy. What do I call you?”

The gangster swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple seeming to drag the length of his throat. “I’m an Ink Blot.”

Romeo arched a brow and deliberately let the hammer tip toward the gangster’s nearest knee. He wouldn’t actually start with a knee—much too cliché—but the punk didn’t need to know that. “That’s not news.”

“I—” He sucked in a breath as if he were preparing himself, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin. “I am a goddamn Ink Blot!”

Romeo sighed. This one was going to need a little persuasion, then. He spun the hammer around with a tight twist of his wrist and cracked the rounded end against the inside of the gangster’s opposite ankle. The bone splintered audibly and a half-second later the punk let loose a wrenching shriek from the sudden pain.

The first scream always was the worst.

Romeo counted to ten in his head, letting the pain radiate through the punk’s body and letting the punk sit with it, before carefully tapping the hammer against that same ankle just above where he’d already struck. The screaming stopped immediately. “Now,” he said, “one more time. I don’t even fucking care if it’s the name your momma gave you or some stupid ass street name you got from your buddies a week ago. Let’s be civil about this. What do I call you?”

The gangster panted heavily, shifting in his chains but obviously aware they were anchored to the floor directly behind him. There was nowhere he could even crawl. “M-my blood is ink … and we will blot your name … o-off these streets!”

Romeo stared at him. “Did you guys just hear the same shit I just heard?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unfortunately.”

Romeo sighed. All four of them had heard it, so he hadn’t suddenly started hallucinating. “I gave you two chances, dumbass,” he said to the gangster. “I don’t believe in three.” He spun the hammer in his palm, mostly because he enjoyed the resurgence of fear in the punk’s eyes. “So, you are now and for the rest of your existence ‘Dumbass.’ But I will ask you one more question.” He pressed the top of the hammer to Dumbass’s abdomen, below the wrap of chains. “Is this little stunt the start of a new round of bloodshed between us?”

Dumbass licked his lips, shifting his weight again. He winced when the movement impacted his shattered ankle and heaved for more breath. “Y-you De Salvos really are … monsters.” He swallowed hard. “You deserve … what you’re gonna get. Fucker.”

“Hm. Nope.” Romeo stood and tossed the hammer to the side. He reached behind him and lifted the handgun he’d grabbed from the SUV on the way over, automatically going through the motions of chambering a round as familiar numbness settled over him. This kind of shit was exactly why Cristiano was better at these sorts of interrogations. He just didn’t have the long-game patience.

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