Page 46 of Heartless Mafia Prince 2: Rocco & Ryah

Laughter filled the large space. We were in good spirits.

Bettina, Pandulf, and their men sat in a straight line in front of us, wriggling against the zip ties. She was responsible for the death of her men. Bettina’s tears had no effect on me or any of us. We each had a person to torment for as long as our hearts desired. Well, actually that wasn’t true. I had somewhere to be at seven thirty.

The plastic crunched under my feet as I stepped closer.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us before we get started?” I stared between Bettina and Pandulf.

“Fuck you, Rocco,” Pandulf spat, nostrils flaring.

Beads of sweat slipped down his olive complected face.

“Clearly, you’re a man with many enemies.” Gian pointed at his face.

“I’m sure Rocco will give you a matching scar on your other cheek.”

We burst into laughter.

“Gian, absolutely.” I grabbed a knife off the steel table.

“Pandulf, you fired a missile into Luther’s house, rattling the shit out of us.” Holding the knife behind my back, I paced.

“Oh, and the weapons and drugs you stole from us, our fathers will torture the DeMarcus’s until they disclose the location of our goods and get them back. So many of our businesses were destroyed. We will rebuild.”

“That’s right. We’ll be stronger than ever,” Bosco added.

I leaned in; the bright lights reflected off the blade I held against his cheek bone. “We almost died, you miserable piece of shit.”

Sliding the tip of the blade down his face, blood dripped on his shoulder. A violent scream left his lungs.

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg.” I stood, chest heaving against the leather apron.

“You need to pay for all the nights I had to be away from her!” I roared, pointing to Ryah over my shoulder.

“You fucking puppet. Following orders from that deranged bitch who planned to take us all down.”

Cupping my gloved hands over my face, I stood reminiscing on all the shit we’d gone through. Laughter ripped through me like a psychopath.

I dropped my hands, grinning calmly. “Ryah, baby, can you grab my nail gun?”

“Of course.”

“Agosto, remove his shoes. Pandulf, time to nail you to the concrete,” I chuckled.

***P***

The evening sunlight shined through the two-story home and into the hall closet where I stood. The man and woman walked into the house.

“Kat, what’s for dinner?” her husband, Olson, asked.

“We’re having leftovers.”

“I should’ve grabbed a Philly steak on the way home,” he mumbled under his breath en route to the bathroom.

“What was that, dear?”

“Nothing darling,” the middle-aged heavy-set man responded.

He flipped on the light. His eyes widened as his hands framed his face. Olson stumbled, hitting the open door. “Ah,” he screamed.

---