Page 20 of Ruthless Mafia Daddy

Hurrying across the open plan living space into my office, I open up the safe and pull out a handgun along with a six-inch knife, tucking both into the waistband of my pants. The champagne and sex high I’d been riding has officially evaporated, and one look around my office has me switching back into work mode.

I nod once to the picture of my deceased parents on the wall, as I do every time I leave, and head up to the roof to meet my brother.

“What have we got, Marco?” I step out onto the roof.

My brother glances over his shoulder at me. He is wearing an almost identical outfit to my own.

“You tell me.” His expression is grave as he steps aside, revealing Tommy Munro, one of our most trusted employees.

What the hell? Snitch?

I fold my arms across my chest as I observe the man chained to a fucking garden chair on the top of a Manhattan skyscraper. “This is a new low, Tommy.”

Tommy’s already sporting a black eye which has swollen and completely sealed shut, and blood is crusting the corner of his lip. His own white shirt is wrinkled and blood-stained.

“Speak.” Marco pulls his gun so fast from the waistband of his trousers that Tommy flinches as the barrel is pressed against his temple.

Teeth bared, he takes a swift kick to Tommy’s shin.

“Marco,” I warn.

“Fine.” Marco takes a step back, keeping his gun pointed at a trembling Tommy.

The sight is pathetic, and I let out a long breath.

“I suggest you start talking.” My voice is low and even.

Tommy squirms, but the chains around his ankles and wrists are too tight to give much.

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Then why does my brother have you chained to a fucking chair, Tommy?”

“Because he’s a fucking psychopath!”

Marco makes to strike, but I hold up my left hand, reaching with my right to pull the six-inch blade free of my waistband.

“That may be true, but he never acts without reason. So, I’m gonna ask you one more time, what did you do to get you chained to a fucking chair?”

Tommy turns his head and spits bloody drool onto the ground.

I wrinkle my nose at the sight, my patience starting to waver.

“I never told him nothing.” He glares at me.

“Who’s him?”

Tommy glances at Marco, who nods.

“Lorenzo Rossi.”

A red mist clouds my mind as I fight the urge to run my knife across Tommy’s throat.

“You’ve been speaking to Lorenzo?”

“Not just speaking. He’s been passing him classified information about our drug shipments. He’s the reason we lost those shipments from Mexico last week.”

I take a deep breath, caressing the sharp blade with my thumb.

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