Page 66 of Tortured Hearts
Ten minutes later, I’m still kneeling on the concrete, silent and confused, with no clue what the hell just happened.
Chapter Twenty
GIANNI
Ipush open the door to the control room, what little soul I have in shreds. I’ve taken bullets that caused less damage than watching Becca fall apart in my arms. Walking away after coming down her throat nearly pushed my willpower to its limits, but once I read that two-word text, I had no choice.
“It’s about damn time,” Anton calls out from behind.
I glance over my shoulder, ice in my veins. “You want to rephrase that?”
His jaw flexes, the lines around his eyes creasing. But the disheveled look doesn’t stop at his face. His suit is untucked and wrinkled, and his hair looks like the aftermath of a hurricane. An hour ago, he operated like a sniper in a sandstorm. Now, he looks like he got swept up in one and spat out.
Which means shit is worse than I thought.
“Now’s not the time to ignore texts, Gianni.”
“You knew I was with Becca.”
“Which is why you know I wouldn’t interrupt unless there was a code red.”
Code red.
Two words meaning retreat and regroup or fuck around and find out. Four months ago, I would’ve seen them and walked out of that basement immediately. Then a stubborn psychiatrist got inside my head and mind fucked the shit out of it.
“I was de-escalating the situation,” I clip, irritated we’re even having this conversation. “Do I need to remind you what happened while we were sipping wine in Hackensack?”
He bristles. “No. But it seems you need a reminder of the blood we spilled in retaliation.” When I lunge forward, he lifts his hand, his gaze flicking around the small room. “That’s not a jab. It's a problem, a big one.”
I stiffen. “I thought you cleaned it up?”
“I did. Saddler isn’t the issue. It’s Marcello.” There’s a slight tic in his jaw as he slides his hands in his pockets. “I got a call from Bobby. There’s a black Escalade with no tags parked outsideCucciola’s.”
I’d be more shocked if there wasn’t. “When did it arrive?”
“About a half hour ago.”
“Marcello’s paranoid, so he’s laying as much guilt on my shoulders as he can before pulling the trigger.”
Anton lets out a rough exhale. “He’s blowing him up.”
I nod. “And counting on an inferno linked to Victoria’s family tracing back to me.”
“Still, it’s a quick and convenient turnaround. There’s no way he could know we’ve veered off course, unless…”
I raise an eyebrow. “You thinking it could’ve come from Staten Island?”
His gaze sharpens. “No. Toscano bleeds red, white, and green. Besides, once he makes a decision, it’sset in stone. Maybe those two pieces-of-shit feds tracked you?”
“Unlikely, but I suppose anything is possible.” A volatile truth that could change the distribution of weight on a dime. “Speaking of pieces of shit, where is my father?”
“Still in Newark padding his alibi. He’s forcing our hand with this, Gianni,” he says, dragging his palm across his chin. “We’re going to have to make a counterplay.”
A move this big is a risk. One that’ll end in either total payout or painful death. I’ve never backed down from a challenge, but this is different. It’s not just my life on the line.
I walked out of that basement intending to stretch enough Band-Aids over enough bullet holes for Becca to believe in Johnny Malone one last time. But that was before my father’s paranoia took center stage. Now, there’s a code red. There are complications and roadblocks. There are diversions to create and fires to set.
“Marcello sent his men there with bombs,” I say, hatred chipping at my composure. “Let’s make sure they detonate.”
