Page 40 of Scar

She nods, indicating that she stands by her words.

“I didn't agree with your father,” she admits. “But now I understand that he was right. Scar Gatti was the best choice he could have made.”

CHAPTER 36 – SCAR

The tomb is silent, my patience wearing thin. Allegra has me bound and gagged emotionally. I didn’t think her finding out about my intentions to take over her family business would create such damage. No, scrap that. I didn’t even consider how it would affect her, because I didn’t care. I never cared. Until now.

When I married her, she was just a means to an end. A chance at vengeance for my father, and a chance to create the biggest ruthless empire this hemisphere has ever seen. But now, now that she knows, she hates me. And I never thought I would say it, but her rejection fucking stings like a bitch.

I huff a sigh of relief when Brando walks into the chamber and announces that we’ve secured our target. Instead of staying to smooth things over with Allegra, I had to leave to deal with this bullshit. I want nothing more than to rush home and fix things with her. The thought of her leaving, although warranted, is doing things to me I can’t explain.

“Bring him in.”

Two of our men drag a battered and bruised figure into the room. His clothes torn and bloodied, his eyes are wild with fear. I’d be too if I was being dragged into a tomb in the dead of night.

They throw him into a chair, binding his wrists and ankles. I don’t know why they bother; in his condition, he’s not going anywhere.

I step forward, looming over our captive. He’s a small-time hood who works with the Scarfones; my men nabbed him off the streets as he took his afternoon walk and he hasn’t come up for air since.

“You know why you’re here.” My voice is deceptively calm. “A little rat tells me you’re another little rat, and you have something to tell me.”

The man opens his mouth and shoots out a slob of spit, which lands at my feet. Brando’s expression hardens, and I nod toward him. Without a word, Brando steps forward, a pair of pliers glinting in his hand.

“This can go one of two ways,” Brando says, his tone casual. To an outsider, he may look like he’s going for a stroll in the park. “You can spit it out, or I can pull it out of you. I can make it as bloody painful as you like.” Brando grins as he strolls towards the prisoner.

The man’s eyes dart around the room, desperate and terrified. When he remains silent, Brando moves with swift efficiency, gripping one of the man’s fingers with the pliers and applying pressure. The man screams, the sound echoing off the walls.

“Please!” he cries, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t know anything!”

I don’t flinch when I hear the squelch of bones breaking and his scream rings through the chamber. One of his fingers hangs awkwardly off the bone, a loose ragdoll swaying violently. None of us want to put up with his bullshit pleas, and the minute he understands this, the sooner we can move things right along.

I’m impassive as I watch him, my expression inscrutable. “You’re lying,” I tell him, “And lying to us is not in your best interest.”

Lucky’s face is a mask of cold determination as he steps forward. They’ve been at him for hours and he hasn’t broken. Idon’t have hours more to waste in this dungeon while he makes up his mind whether or not to squeal.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?Who. Ordered. The. Hit?”

Lucky bares his teeth menacingly as he leans down into the man’s face. Gone is his usually playful attitude and in its place stands the baby-faced killer I know he is. Something in his eyes must frighten the man, because he breaks down and starts to sob as fear takes a front row seat in his eyes.

His resistance wavers under Lucky’s piercing gaze, but it completely crumbles when Brando opens and snaps the pliers with a menacing click.

“Okay! Okay!” he sobs. “I’ll tell you! Just… please, no more!”

Well, that was easier than I expected. Maybe a little too easy.

I motion for Brando to stop, and the room falls silent, waiting in anticipation. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for.

“We’re listening,” I coax him.

“It was… Scarfone,” the man gasps.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with significance. The Scarfone family is small fish. They don’t have the manpower, nor the clout, to make a move so bold. Which means they have someone’s backing. They must.

Brando releases the man’s finger, and he slumps in the chair, in pain but sobbing with relief. “Please… I told you what you wanted to know.”

“Why now?” I ask. “And who’s backing them?”

The man shakes his head, a fearful look in his eyes. Sweat coats his face, a mask of undeniable horror rolling down his skin in tiny rivulets.

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