Page 23 of The Thief

Lanza swallows hard, his throat bobbing, while Sartori goes for defiance. “That’s a lie,” he spits out. “We’ve done no such thing. Who said that? Give me a name.”

“So that you can go beat them up and burn down their establishment the way you beat up Giuseppe Moran?” I shrug off my jacket, remove my cufflinks and start to roll my sleeves up to the elbows. “No, I don’t think so.” I move in front of Sartori. “You went against my rules, Giulio. I believe I made myself quite clear when I said that we were not going to extort money from local businesses any longer.”

Sartori doesn’t respond, but Lanza immediately confesses. “Padrino, I did it,” he mutters, his eyes on the floor. “I’m willing to accept the consequences. I just ask. . .” His voice breaks. “My daughter Lila. . . She has no other family. I only ask that you keep her safe.”

“Shut up,” Sartori snaps. “This is bullshit.” He glares at me, his eyes full of contempt. “If the old padrino were alive, he’d die all over again seeing what we’ve become. No more extortion, no more hits, no more muscle in the unions. What’s next? Are we the Mafia, or are we fuckingaccountants?”

“This isn’t a democracy, Sartori. We are whatever I say we are.” I take off my tie and toss it aside. “You don’t get a vote.”

“And are you going to exile me for it?” he sneers. “Go ahead. I’ll find another gig in no time.”

My predecessor, Domenico Cartozzi, screamed and shouted. He was erratic and out of control, and some people—people like Giulio Sartori—mistook his outbursts for strength. I’m self-controlled and rarely raise my voice, and so he’s decided I’m a weakling.

It’s the last mistake he’ll make.

“Exile is for people that go against me inadvertently. Youdeliberatelybroke my rules, Giulio, and when that happens, there’s a consequence. Your body feeds the fish in the canals.”

Lanza hangs his head. Sartori finally pales, but even now, he doesn’t have the good sense to throw himself at my mercy. Not that he’ll find any. “You going to have Cesari do it? What’s the matter, Moretti—don’t like to get your hands dirty? Or are you afraid to take me in a fight?”

Looks like it’s time for a demonstration.

I grew up on the streets, and I know how to handle myself. I don’t know what Sartori thinks he’s achieving by needling me. I don’t have anything to prove, but I already woke up feeling irritated and out of sorts, so what the hell. I might as well get my exercise in for the day.

“You heard the man, Leo,” I say, my voice as cold as ice. “Sartori wants a fight. Untie him.” I turn to Lanza. “What about you, Paul? Want to join?”

He’s stupid enough to get involved with Sartori but smart enough not to cross me. He answers immediately. “No, Padrino.”

Leo goes forward to free Sartori. “You idiot,” he says unsympathetically. “If you’d kept your mouth shut, it would have been quick.” He hoists him to his feet. “And now it’s going to hurt.”

Sartori lunges the moment his hands are free, driving his shoulder into my ribs. I stagger back, but he’s already swinging again, coming at me with vicious determination, his fists quick and wild. I duck one punch, block another, and then slam my elbow into his jaw. He grunts and stumbles back, breathing hard.

I assess my opponent. Sartori is a few inches shorter than me, but he’s about fifty pounds heavier. A big man and a former boxer, but judging from the way he’s panting, he hasn’t kept up his conditioning.

I have.

He comes at me again, slamming into me like a battering ram, driving me back against the wall. I regain my footing before my skull crashes into the stone floor, and I punch him hard. Before he can recover from it, I take him to the floor, my forearm locked around his throat.

His face turns red, and he claws at my arm, gasping, trying to break my grip. His right fist flies toward my face, and I twist away before he can make contact, and he manages to break free.

I jump to my feet. Sartori is slower to get up. His jaw is bloody where my signet ring hit him, and his gaze is unfocused. “Fuck you, Moretti,” he grits out. He throws another wild punch, and I block it, catch his wrist, and drive my knee into his ribs.

It slows him down, but he’s not done. He slams into me again, throwing his weight behind it, and we go down hard, hitting the concrete floor in a tangle of limbs. He tries to place me in a chokehold, but before he can succeed, I shift my weight, flip him, and slam his head against the floor.

Once.

Twice.

The fight drains out of him with a choked gasp. His body slackens, and his chest heaves once—then nothing.

I’ve killed men by shooting them. By sliding a blade between their ribs. Or, in Sartori’s case, by beating him to death. Easy or not: death is the price you pay for breaking my rules.

I push myself up, steady my breathing, and turn my back on the body. “Clean this up,” I tell Leo before turning to Lanza. “What did he have on you?”

Lanza gapes at me. It takes him a minute to register that the fight is over. “Compromising photos of my daughter,” he replies shakily, his face still white. “He threatened to put them online if I didn’t cooperate.”

If I had any regret about killing Sartori, it just evaporated. “You should have come to me.” My knuckles are bloodied and raw. Leo starts to fuss about them, and I wave him off. “But you didn’t, and that was a mistake.” I take a deep breath and stare at Lanza. “I don’t want to leave your teenage daughter without her only parent, and that’s the only reason you’re alive. You have a week to leave Venice. If I ever see you in my city again, I will kill you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Padrino.” He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. “Thank you.”

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