Page 2 of Wicked Rivals

A man’s heart held his weaknesses, and I’d never give anyone that kind of power over me. Benedetta was no Valerie Salera, and she never would be, so she could never have my heart.

Our marriage wouldn’t carry any risk in that regard, and that was precisely what I needed. No emotional attachment.

I turned my back on the box.

“It’s happening. Benedetta’s exactly what I need, and you better get on board with it.”

“Yes, sir…”

He stopped just short of the door and stood there without saying anything more, keeping his back to me.

“Is there something else, Tony, or do you just enjoy wasting my time?”

Someone knocked on the door before he could come up with the right answer.

“Enter,” I said.

One of my enforcers came in, clasping his hands together.

“Sir, the rat. We got him chained up downstairs waiting for your judgment.”

“Good. Then let’s go to the cellar and get to work.”

After taking off my jacket and draping it over the back of the leather chair, I left the comfort of my office for the less-than-luxurious underground level of my estate house.

The stark difference between the upper levels of the house and the basement had always struck me as poetic.

The perfect representation of mafia life.

On the surface, nothing but old-world glamour and luxury, while below the stairs an entirely different world existed.

A world of pain and blood so thick the stains would never wash away. All hidden by thick slabs of Italian marble paid for by death.

A few hours later, the bloody mess chained to the brick wall in front of me could hardly be called a man anymore.

I had cracked his nose, given him two black eyes, even knocked out a few teeth, and still he hadn’t broken. I hated to admit it, but the bastard’s resolve impressed me.

He probably would’ve been a good soldier. Too bad he preferred spying on me.

Empty threats wouldn’t scare the man now. Not after the beating he’d taken without uttering a word. Maybe an unexpected show of civility. With bottom feeders like this one, that usually threw them off enough to give me what I wanted.

“This can end for you right now, Mark,” I said. “You know that. Just tell me what I’m waiting to hear, and I’ll put an end to all your suffering.”

“Go to hell,” he said, blood spattering from his mouth onto my white shirt.

I sighed. “Suit yourself, Mark.”

Turning to the small wooden table beside me, I studied the tools laid out before me.

The Beretta M9 was new, but I preferred the power of the Colt forty-five next to it. A bullet would shut him up, not make him talk.

I could deliver a hell of a lot more pain with the Bowie knife or one of the other tactical blades, but I hadn’t gone down there just to cut him up. Mark would only focus on not dying rather than on opening his mouth.

Dead men kept their secrets, and I wanted to hear those secrets before I let him go.

A man who still drew breath could still be broken.

No, this called for maximum pain with minimal damage, so when I slipped the set of polished brass knuckles on my fingers, it felt right.

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