Page 31 of Consumed By the Mafia

The Informant

Peter didn’t make thesmart choice. Abigail didn’t need that spelled out for her when the man she’d thought to be her perpetually fearful informant opted to spit on Ryoma’s clean shirt. It was a small, openly defiant act that a truly frightened individual would never have chosen. Not with a gun still pressed into their body.

Ryoma had grunted, flipped the gun around, and struck Peter hard enough to daze him. He had proceeded to tuck his gun away, haul Peter up, and adjust course down the off-shoot hall. “I’d let you stay up here,” he called as he walked, “but if he has buddies waitin’ for him, that might not be safe. I need you where I can see you, at least until Cris gets here.”

Peter groaned, still mostly conscious.

Abigail pulled herself together and trailed after them. “I didn’t think this house even had a basement.” Not that she’d explored. She also didn’t particularly like the idea of going down into this one or seeing what might be done in this situation.

“It’s a little less comfortable,” he said as he rested his thumb on a doorknob. Something beeped, indicating a hidden electronic lock, and he quickly pulled the door open before resecuring his grip on the other male.

Abigail drew a preparatory breath and pushed herself forward. She knew she couldn’t save Peter from whatever was about to happen, and she also knew she had a choice to make. A choice that could make his immediate experience much worse. Her first instinct was to keep her mouth tightly shut. She wasn’t supposed to reveal the identity of her informants, after all. That information was generally so secure she didn’t even report the details to her superior. But this situation was atypical in every way, and the pain still throbbing in her face made her hesitate. If nothing else, he had definitively violated the conditions of his agreement. Assaulting his handler was indisputably against the rules.

Her hand lifted to her cheek as her mind raced. The room around them lit up, Ryoma striding away from the wall where she presumed the switch was located and depositing Peter on the floor. Her eyes widened. The room was mostly open space, with a wall of shelves and one large set of cabinets. The shelvescontained items she was a little afraid to get close enough to identify, particularly in light of the thing that most concerned her.

Ryoma had dropped Peter next to a thick chain and already begun winding that chain around Peter’s torso, pinning Peter’s arms to his sides. He wrapped it only twice before snapping the catch at the end over the extended line to lock it into place. The chain itself trailed back, anchored into the stone wall.

Peter grunted. “Fuck, man, I’m one of you!”

“Are you?” Ryoma asked. “The spit on my shirt says otherwise. The lie in my memories says otherwise. The bruise on my woman’s face says otherwise.”

Peter scoffed. “That ain’t your woman, you know. That bitch is fuckin’ FBI.”

Ryoma crouched down in front of him, his back mostly to her position. “Real interesting that you know that, Marchesi.”

Abigail scowled. “Ryoma, if I may?” She saw Peter’s eyes widen over Ryoma’s shoulder and found she didn’t care. She should have, probably, but the feeling never flared.

Ryoma stood and approached her calmly, his gaze snagging on her surely already darkening bruise. His lips thinned, but he lifted his eyes to hers and managed a faint smile. “Want me to bring a chair down here for you?”

She shook her head. “You said something, before he burst in, about honesty.” She wasn’t just going to have to leave the bureau after this, she was going to have to go into hiding. But Ryoma inclined his head with recognition, so she continued anyway. She’d chosen her side in this war, apparently. “I can’t explain anything about his presence here right now, but thereis one thing you should know.” Her hand came up to rub at her cheek again without conscious direction. “Peter Marchesi was my informant.”

Ryoma’s eyes went wide.

“You lyin’—”

“Of course, I’m no longer sure how much of what he told me was true or a deception,” she said, cutting a glare in Peter’s direction. “Seeing as the personality he’s displaying here is entirely different from the one he portrayed in front of me. But we’ve spoken several times over the past few months. Peter here is how I knew aboutyou.”

Ryoma huffed. “Well. That changes things.” He brushed her hand from her cheek, stroked his thumb gently across the line of her jaw, and pressed his lips to her forehead. Then he stepped back and turned again to face Peter. “You really fucked up, Marchesi. Talkin’ to the feds? Now I can’t even put you out of your misery when we’re done. Boss is gonna want that honor himself.” He rolled his neck as Peter paled. “And youaregonna talk. Startin’ right now.”

Peter’s eyes darted between them, eventually settling on Ryoma. “Y-you’re gonna take the word of a fed?”

“Thisfed, yeah.” Ryoma crouched down again and set to work removing Peter’s sneakers. When Peter belatedly thought to try and kick him, Ryoma caught the swinging foot with a single hand, as if he’d been waiting for the move all along. One by one, the sneakers were tossed aside, well out of reach, and Peter’s feet were left vulnerable in their worn socks. “Now,” Ryoma said, “I’ll ask my questions exactly once. You really want to answer the first time, and smartass responses don’tcount.” His voice dropped to a cold tone that felt like it could slice through flesh all on its own. “Question one. Who do youreallywork for?”

Abigail watched Peter’s ears go red and his nostrils flare with a rush of obvious anger. He twisted restlessly, uselessly, in his chains.

“I work for the fucking Dragon, you know?”

Ryoma exhaled, reached out, and curled two fingers around one of Peter’s sock-covered toes. “Lies get punished, Marchesi. Obviously, you’ve betrayed Mr. De Salvo, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Peter let out a short-lived wail, his eyes blowing wide with pain. He sucked in deep, rapid breaths.

Ryoma slid his fingers down to another toe, gripping through the sock enough to pinch the toe in a clear message even Abigail could understand. She felt her own toes curl instinctively inside the safe confines of her shoes.

“F-fine!” Peter cried, wheezing. “Fuck, fine. Yes, I talked to the goddamn feds, okay?” His lips curled and he cut a glare at her. “I fuckin’ hate it here. Thought they could get me out.” His glare intensified. “But the bitch expected me to hand her the case on a silver fuckin’ platter, you know? Never went anywhere.”

Abigail sucked in a breath. “That isn’t even—”

Peter suddenly shrieked, louder and longer than before, body jerking and his head falling back as his legs twitched.

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