Page 46 of Petrichor

He grabs one of Denny’s hands—which have turned purplish blue for lack of blood circulation due to the chains around his wrists and the weight of his whole hanging body pulling on them. Denny gasps and tries to fight, lifting his tied-up feet less than an inch in the air. Pathetic.

“He’s ready to slice your limbs off and feed the rats with them,” I whisper darkly, while Luca gives him a crooked smile. As soon as he withdraws the blade out of the wood the shithead screams, “It was Enzino’s son!”

Luca unleashes a furious roar; it bounces over the walls of the large warehouse, creating a booming echo. He has a very deep hostilitytoward the Enzinos, a personal grudge he’s been waiting to let loose.

“Which. Son?” Luca’s enraged tone sounds almost animalistic. Jack Enzino has two sons: Arturo and Mario. Arturo is the black sheep of the family. A partygoer not interested in anything regarding the family. The other one is a sadistic fuck.

“Ma-Mario.” Denny’s voice trembles as he utters his name. He’s covered in sweat and just soiled himself. It’s dripping down his dangling feet, forming a puddle on the cement floor. I’ve seen worse.

“Why would Mario ask you to do that?”

Denny swallows hard, parting his dry, bleeding lips as he glances up at Luca with fearful eyes. “He forced me to do it.” That I believe since Mario is a heartless psycho.

“Do what exactly?” I question.

“Like you said—” He keeps weeping. “—I cooked the books for-for the last f-five months, just followed his instructions. That’s all. I had to do it. I couldn’t… He’s crazy! He-he used a knife on me, sliced the skin on my back just because I hesitated once.”

Luca takes several steps back before raising the knife and sending the blade flying right into Denny’s thigh with a sharp thud—followed by a high-pitched scream.

Luca is barely containing his wrath, flexing his fists and huffing like a dragon. He couldn’t act on his vendetta before because Don Massimo forbade it. Our old Boss didn’t want to start a war. When Seb became the boss Luca still retrained himself, we were grieving and then attempting to show the other families the Leones were still as strong as ever. But seeing how things are going, it seems that the Enzinos are asking for it.

“How do you contact him?” I ask. There were no suspicious texts on his phone, nor in his emails.

“Envelopes.” He gurgles. Spit mixed with blood drools out of his mouth. “Somebody leaves them under-under my house mat…Monday nights.”

“Who?” Luca sounds like a damn bear.

“I-I don’t know, I swear!”

“Is Mario working with his father?” Or is the sick fuck going solo? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“What about the wedding between Coretti’s daughter and Mario?”

His lips widen as he gasps. He knows something.

“Fucking talk!” I grip the knife piercing his thigh and push it deeper.

“Ahhhh! Stop!” He coughs and wheezes. “I-I overheard p-part of a conversation Mario had on the phone the only time I m-met him.” He sniffles loudly; his body keeps trembling. “He was talking to someone about fucking Coretti’s daughter since her husband-to-be wouldn’t be able to touch her.”

The marriage is really happening, but Mario is not the groom. “Who’s the mysterious fiancé?”

“His brother,” Luca replies, and Denny nods.

Arturo? Jack Enzino has finally found a way to use his younger son. It makes sense. Mario’s sadistic ways must have reached Coretti’s ears. He wouldn’t give his daughter’s hand in marriage to him. Arturo on the other hand is the perfect puppet, will do whatever his father tells him to.

“Do you have a date for the wedding?” I ask.

“Next month.” He lays his head on his outstretched arm. “Please. That’s all I know.” He sobs. “I’m sorry.”

We need people that follow orders and keep being loyal behind our backs. He was forced, but he accepted the money Mario gave him, I saw the bank statements of his offshore account. Apologizing is useless at this point. Forgiveness is ineffective. An eye for an eye is what was preached to us. Violence and revenge is all that work in our world. Looking weak gives people an opening to stab you in the back. We have to keep reminding everybody what happens when someone fucks with the Leones.

And I need to remember why getting close to Fly is a weakness I can’t afford to have. The bracelet around my wrist isn’t enough. I need something else. I need to show him.

Irked once again by my cluttered thoughts, I lift my hands and swiftly twist the guy’s head to the right until I hear his neck break. His chin droops down as life leaves his eyes. A quick death. I didn’t feel like prolonging it today.

He’s number thirty-four. Thirty-four souls I’ll have to answer for when I meet Saint Peter in front of those pearly gates.

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