Page 17 of Corrupt Vows

No one answers.

I press forward. He screams. My knife slides a quarter of an inch into his eyeball like butter. Clear fluid seeps out around my blade and trails down his face. The scent of piss fills the air. Ermanno grabs his legs as he kicks, but the man’s terror and my fist in his hair keep his top half relatively still.

“Anyone wanna speak up?”

Chains clink as I push my knife a little deeper. Muffled by the tape, the big man’s pleas morph into screams of pain.

I slide deeper. Red gushes around my blade.

“How about now?” I ask.

Without changing pace, I sink the rest of my knife into his eye socket. The sound of his pals vomiting bounces off the walls. I twist my wrist. The man’s screams go silent. I work the hilt back and forth. His toes tap against the floor as his entire body seizes.

“Who told you to set up shop here?”

They’re too busy pleading and blowing chunks to respond. I yank my blade free and step back, narrowly avoiding the blood gushing from the man’s empty eye socket, and turn—with my knife still dripping—and stalk toward my next target.

He talks so fast he sounds like someone sped up a recording and turned him into a chipmunk.

“Tarzan from Chicago played middleman for a bigger fish. Don’t know who. They didn’t tell us.”

“Who does Tarzan usually work for?”

I know the answer—each of the five leading families in New York City keeps tabs on him—because he’s always so damn loud and proud of his janky operations and always claims he’ll expand into our city someday. When my victim gives three legitimate names, I hum in recognition, but grab his head and bring the knife to his face anyway.

“Who’s he working for this time?”

“I don’t know!”

I align the tip of my knife with his eye. His pupils dart around as he seeks an escape, but he doesn’t find one.

“Who gave Tarzan the money?”

“I don’t know!”

He’s telling the truth. I plunge the knife hilt deep, jerk it around, yank it out, and step away.

“Anyone have anything to add?” I ask the other two dipshits as I turn around.

They blubber and spout nonsense, but I tilt my chin, giving my men permission to end the interrogation.

I stalk to the table in the corner, wipe my knife with the cleanest towel, and slip it into its sheath. Even without a speck of blood on me, I wash my hands and forearms with soap in the small sink, just in case. After drying myself with paper towels, I roll down my sleeves, pinch my cuff links out of my pocket, and secure my cuffs before slipping on my suit jacket and buttoning the front.

“Don’t worry, boss, I’ll take care of the cleanup. Wouldn’t want to keep your date waiting, now would we?” Ermanno razzes me as he props his hip on the table.

I flip him off over my shoulder and stalk toward the door. His chuckle follows me down the hall and up the stairs.

I garner looks from the hotel’s patrons, but my employees step aside and nod in respect as I stalk through the smallest hotel I own. When the receptionist stands, I wave in a lazy greeting and dismissal as I head toward the front entrance. The doorman opens the glass door and bows in respect. I slip the old man a hundred from my vest pocket, as I always do when I pass, since he’s been a faithful informant for over three decades, and wave the valet away as I pull my keys out of my pocket.

The clock on the dash informs me I’ll catch an earful if I don’t book it, so I pull out of my VIP parking spot, dart between cars, and pull up to Natalie’s college just as she pushes the door open and starts down the sidewalk. I roll down the window, shift into park, and wait until she opens the passenger door before nodding at her bodyguards. They nod back and head off toward Natalie’s black SUV.

They’ll follow at a distance the entire evening, just in case.

Natalie plops into her seat and slams the door.

I roll up my window and grunt in response to my sister’s greeting. She squints and studies me.

“What, you’re not gonna scold me?” she asks.

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