Page 94 of Bloody Vows
“I’ll go with you,” Simone says in a soft voice, her eyes never leaving mine. “Just take your hands off of me.”
“Get your husband to put the gun down first.”
Simone’s eyes meet mine, and she gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. She has a plan. I can see it in her face.
The question is whether or not I trust her.
Whether or not I think my wife would betray me after all.
24
TRISTAN
Simone moves fast and viciously, exactly what I would have expected from her. She drives her elbow back into Enzo's ribs, startling him enough that he falters. She takes that moment to drop to the sand and scramble away from him, kicking at his ankle as she does so, a risky move that makes me both proud of her and want to yell at her all at once. Enzo stumbles, and I have my shot.
But I don't take it.
Instead, I rush forward as Enzo stumbles, hitting him with the butt of my gun in the temple before he can recover. He goes down hard, the knife spinning away across the ground, and I'm on him before he can get back up.
"Stay down," I snarl, pressing the barrel of my gun against the back of his head. "Move and you're dead."
Enzo groans, blood trickling from where my gun connected with his skull, but he doesn't try to get up. Not entirely stupid, then.
I look up at Simone, who's sitting up in the sand, her hand at her throat. There's fear in her eyes, an emotion I rarely see inher, and it makes something violent and possessive rise in my chest.
"Are you hurt?" I ask her, a bit more sharply than I intend, keeping my gun trained on Enzo.
"I'm fine," she says, but her voice is shaky. "He didn’t hurt me."
My guards come rushing down the beach, weapons drawn, faces grim with the knowledge that they fucked up. They should have been closer. They should have seen this coming. They should have taken Enzo down the moment they saw him.
"Secure the area," I order. "Check for more of them."
"Boss, we're sorry, we?—"
"Later." I cut the man speaking off with a look that promises retribution later. "Get her inside. Now."
Two of my men escort Simone back to the house while the others help me drag Enzo to his feet. He's conscious but barely, swaying on his feet as we march him toward the cars. I hit him hard, which I don’t regret in the slightest. I have more pain for him before we’re finished here.
"Where are we taking him?" one of my men asks.
"The warehouse," I say grimly. "The one by the docks."
The warehouse is one of several properties I inherited when I took over the Russo territory. It's mostly empty except for what’s needed for extracting information from unwilling subjects, and this time of night, no one will be around to hear the screams. My father taught me young that sometimes violence is the only language people understand.
Tonight, Enzo Torrino is going to learn that lesson the hard way. I’ve never enjoyed torture, but I might make an exception for this.
We drive through the Miami night in silence, Enzo zip-tied and blindfolded in the back of the SUV. He's still conscious, though he hasn't said a word since we loaded him into thevehicle. He knows what's coming. He knows there's no talking his way out of this. I hear the occasional grunt and muffled sound of pain, but no attempts at pleading. No begging.
It would almost make me respect him, if he hadn’t hurt my wife.
The docks are deserted at this hour, nothing but boats and empty buildings. We pull up to a nondescript building near the water, and I can smell the salt air mixed with diesel fuel from the boats in the harbor.
Inside, the warehouse is uncomfortably hot. I roll up my shirtsleeves, setting my gun on a nearby table as my guards drag Enzo toward a chair bolted to the cement floor. Two men are already getting out a tarp, the sound of the plastic ominous in the still night air.
"Sit him down," I order, and my men force Enzo into the chair. They secure him with zip-ties, arms behind his back, ankles tied to the chair legs. He's not going anywhere.
I pull off his blindfold, and he blinks in the harsh fluorescent light. His eyes are wide with fear, but there's still defiance there, too. He thinks he's tough. He thinks he can withstand whatever I throw at him.
