Page 50 of Consumed By the Mafia

She shrugged. “His fault. I’m not going through the trouble of running his prints to see if his actual name pops up in some system somewhere.”

“That is generally the most boring way to learn a person’s secrets,” Ryoma said.

Abby bobbed her head and rolled her wrist in the gangster’s direction in a lazy gesture. “Let’s think about what we do know about John here. If it’s true he was at least trying to target you, and presumably not over the Irish mob guy who was stalking me from the pastry shop, he must have an associate or three with a connection to you. Who was it you said he delivered Brandi De Salvo to before? What happened to that guy?”

Well thatwasa theory. Particularly since it was the only confirmed time Ryoma had had any interaction, even indirectly, with their John Smith. If her theory was on-point, that would mean the asshole currently at their feet had connections to the top of the Ink Blot food chain. That made this much more interesting. Ryoma moved a hand to his hip as he shifted his weight. “That guy’s very dead,” he replied.

“No fucking shit,” not-John snapped.

Ryoma lifted his lips in a mocking grin as he looked over at the other male. “You sound agitated, John.”

“Stop fucking calling me that!”

“You’re clearly confused.” Ryoma stretched out a foot, hooked his booted toes under the chains at John’s wrists, and swept his leg out to the side. The motion forced John swiftly to the cold, concrete floor, probably bruising his shoulder from the impact. Ryoma retracted his foot. “I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want to call you, because for the next few hours, I fuckingownyou. John. So if you want a little leeway, you start answering questions. If you want me to piss you off in every goddamn way imaginable, then by all means, keep blowing smoke.”

John groaned, the chains rattling around him as he shifted in an attempt to right himself.

Ryoma moved and stepped on the chain, just above his hands.

John stilled. His head slowly tipped back, brown eyes wide.

Ryoma clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “I didn’t knock you down just to watch you sit your ass back up, John.”

John’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a hard, visibly angry breath. Seconds passed before he muttered, “I knew we shouldn’t have grabbed that bitch.”

Ryoma arched a brow and lifted his gaze. “Start up a tally. Every time he insults any of the Ladies De Salvo gets a mark.”

“Sure thing,” Abby said. She lifted her phone and set to work.

John scoffed. “Seriously? What do you even care? Not like they’reyourwhores.”

Ryoma whistled. “Wow. We’re gonna count that as four—one for each. And you, John, are going to learn two lessons.” He lowered himself, careful to keep his weight onthe chain, and slid his knife again from the sheath at his leg. He twirled it slowly over John’s widening eyes, letting the overhead fluorescent reflect ominously on the darkened silver. “First, those women are the De Salvo family’s most precious treasures. Ignoring what you just said would be one of the highest forms of disloyalty, so you understand I have to hurt you now.” He paused and pressed the tip of the blade to John’s chest.

John held his breath.

“Second,” Ryoma continued, “I happen to be very close to one of those women.” He pressed a little harder and the shirt split beneath his knife. He let the blade move slowly lower, grazing but not piercing the skin. Drawing out the suspense with minimal damage. “You basically just called my baby sister a whore, John. If it were up to me, I’d slice off your balls and shove them down your throat for that.”

He expected John to remain still, or to double-down on his generic insults. The gangster surprised him by rasping out a single, briefly nonsensical, word. “Rush.”

Ryoma paused, a droplet of blood visible beneath the tip of his knife. “You have no control over the speed with which I’ll cut you, John.”

“No, asshat,” John said. The breathless desperation in his voice belied the crude anger he was aiming for. “My name isRush. Fucking stop calling meJohn.”

Across from them, Abby balanced a hand on her hip. “Your street name is Rush?”

Ryoma pushed out a breath. “I’veheard worse, I guess.”

Rush glared up at him. “Fuck you.” He angled his head as best he could manage. “Both of you.”

“Well, if we’re back to that,” Ryoma quipped with deliberate levity. Before the male beneath him could respond, he pressed his knife into the gangster’s skin and set to carving. Not too deep, of course—Mikey would filethimif he took the fun away. Just deep enough to leave a message that would scar, if by some miracle Rush’s body was ever found.

For all his earlier snark and bravado, Rush made no effort not to scream.

sixteen

Committed

Watching a torture-based interrogationwas intense. Abigail already knew that, just from what she’d witnessed with Peter in the safehouse basement. Taking part in one, though, even just a little, was so muchmore.

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