Page 9 of King Of Order

Olivio Tirone ran drugs and trafficked humans all over Naples, a member of the Camorra.

By kidnapping me, he’d broken a sacrosanct Mafia code, one of cooperation between certain families in Napoli.

Whoever had paid him must have made my capture so enticing to sidestep the social contract.

If I survived this encounter, and I would, I intended to find out who had the balls and tear them from their sac.

‘Vaffanculo. You think this changes anything?’ I rasped, voice raw and hoarse. ‘You’ve made your move but don’t realize the game’s over. If not now, hell will come for you in due time.’

Olivio’s grin faltered, and he stepped closer, his breath hot and rancid as he leaned in. ‘We’ll see about that,ragazzoduro. But first, we’re going to have a little fun.’

I canted a brow, and he jerked his chin at one of the extensive security feed screens in front of us.

It showed a live view from a truck camera.

It lumbered through Naples narrow as shit, high-traffic streets navigating crazy lanes designed in the middle ages.

It pulled out onto the seafront and wound down Partenope Street with the sunset panorama of Vesuvius with the Posillipo Hill and Capri.

It stopped at the waterfront, where clubs, bars, restaurants, and pizzerias animated the street.

The truck’s driver opened, and a man slid out and slammed it shut behind him, sauntering into the foot traffic and disappearing among the crowd.

‘Where is this fuckin’ going?’ I growled.

‘Pazienza,’ Tirone snarled. He brought up the phone in his hand and made a call.

He muttered into it, even as the screen switched.

This time, the view appeared from a sedan parked a few cars down from the Fiat Fiorino lorry.

The same one the live feed had been coming from.

With a squeak, the door to the office swung open, and a figure staggered inside.

I sliced my eyes to the newcomer and widened them, even though it hurt like fuck.

A woman, skinny and lean, eyes glassy, mouth slack.

Eyes rimmed and bloodshot, streaked with black mascara. Lips matted, caked with dirt and crimson lipstick. Skin broken all over her face, hair knotted.

She clutched a bag to her side, her emaciated body almost floating underneath the ripped mini dress.

Her feet tottered, shoved in designer heels in utter dissonance with her junkie styling.

Still, beneath her ragged state, I tagged her beauty, evidenced by her sculpted cheekbones and sultry pout.

‘Papa,’ she slurred as she lurched forward.

Olivio Tirone’s fleshy face convulsed into rage.

‘Take her the fuck out of here,’ he snarled to one of his men.

When the thug lunged for her, she ducked, moving fast for her condition.

Landing on her father’s desk, she planted herself with a husky laugh.

He glared at her as she opened her bag, withdrew a cigarette pack, and took one slim fag from it.

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