Page 33 of His Ruthless Obsession

"Shut it down. Tonight. And make sure our friends at City Hall revoke their liquor license first thing tomorrow." I straighten my jacket, watching the flames climb higher. "No one fucks with me without consequences."

The fire department finally arrives, but there's nothing left to save. Just ashes and a warning written in flame: cross the Bueti family at your own peril.

But I'm not done yet. We head across town to enact the next part of my revenge.

I lean against my BMW in the shadows of the warehouse district, Marco beside me watching the street. Right on schedule, headlights pierce the darkness — a black SUV carrying Salvatore Mantione, one of their top earners.

"Three guards with him," Marco mutters, adjusting his tactical vest.

I nod, chambering a round. "Take out the driver. I want Sal alive."

The SUV slows at the intersection. Our men emerge from hiding spots, weapons trained. The driver spots us too late.

Marco's shot shatters the windshield. The SUV swerves, crashing into a lamppost. Gunfire erupts as the guards scramble out, but we have superior position and numbers.

"Cover me." I sprint forward as Marco and our crew lay down suppressing fire. Two guards drop. The third raises his hands in surrender.

Sal kicks his door open, stumbling out with a pistol. I dodge his wild shot, closing the distance. My fist connects with his jaw. He staggers back. I grab his gun arm, twisting until bones crack. The weapon clatters to the ground.

"You really thought you could threaten my woman and get away with it?" I slam him against the SUV. Blood trickles from his split lip.

"It wasn't personal," he spits. "Just business."

I drive my knee into his stomach. He doubles over, wheezing. "Everything about Jazz is personal."

"The don won't stand for this-"

"Your don should've thought about that before targeting civilians." I zip-tie his hands behind his back. "Marco, get him in the car. We're going to have a long chat about the Mantione chain of command."

Sal struggles as we drag him to my BMW. "You're starting a war, Bueti."

"No." I slam the trunk closed on his protests. "I'm finishing one."

Once we get out to one of the warehouses I own on the eastern side of the city, I drag Sal down the metal stairs into the basement we use for situations like this. The room smells of rust and mildew, water dripping somewhere in the darkness. Marcoflips on the industrial lights, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor.

"Comfortable?" I circle Sal once he's zip-tied to a metal chair bolted to the ground. His expensive suit is torn and bloody from our earlier scuffle. "Let's talk about who is targeting my girl."

He spits blood at my feet. "Go to hell."

I backhand him hard enough to snap his head sideways. "Wrong answer. Marco, the tools."

Marco wheels over a stainless steel cart. Surgical implements gleam under the fluorescent lights - pliers, scalpels, various cutting instruments. I select a pair of wire cutters.

"You know what's fascinating about hands?" I grab his left one, stretching out his fingers. "Twenty-seven bones. Each one can be broken in multiple places."

The wire cutters snap shut on his pinky nail. He screams as I rip it clean off.

"That's just the beginning. Now, about that order..."

"I don't know anything!" Sweat beads on his forehead.

I move to the next finger. "Lying makes this worse. We traced the senders directly to your safehouse."

Another nail tears free. Blood drips onto the concrete.

"Wait! Please!" His voice cracks. "Luca... Luca told us to start sending messages. He's trying to prove himself before taking over for his old man."

I pause, studying his face for deception. "Why target Jazz specifically?"

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