Page 69 of Savage Union
Sullivan spits blood onto the floor. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Marco moves forward, hand raised to deliver another lesson in manners, but I stop him with a slight gesture. Violence has its place in interrogation, but sometimes a different approach yields better results.
"I intend to." I keep my voice conversational. "But I'm curious why you were chosen for this particular task. It's not every day someone volunteers for a suicide mission."
Something flickers across his face—doubt? Fear? It's gone too quickly to identify with certainty.
"You think you know everything, don't you?" Sullivan shifts in his restraints. "The great Don Vittore Rosso. King of New York. But you don't know shit."
"Then enlighten me."
He smirks despite his injuries. "You stole what didn't belong to you. Now you're going to pay."
The statement hangs in the air, deliberately vague yet carrying clear weight. "What exactly did I steal, Mr. Sullivan?"
"You know what." His one good eye burns with conviction. "He said you'd pretend not to know. Said it would prove how little you respect us."
"He?" I press. "Mickey?"
Sullivan's smile widens, revealing more bloodstained teeth. "Not the old man. Liam. Liam Costello sends his regards."
The name triggers something in my memory—a report from one of my informants about Mickey's son taking a more active role in the family business. Young, ambitious, with a reputation for being more volatile than his father. But there's something else—something I'm missing.
"And what message does the younger Costello have for me?" I keep my expression neutral, though my interest is thoroughly piqued now.
"That you can't keep what isn't yours." Sullivan leans forward as much as his restraints allow. "That there are consequences for theft."
"I haven't stolen anything from the Costellos." I maintain eye contact, searching for tells. "Unless they've suddenly laid claim to territory I'm unaware of."
"Not territory." His lips curve into a knowing smirk. "Something more... personal."
A cold suspicion begins to form in my mind. "Be specific, Mr. Sullivan. What exactly does Liam Costello believe I've taken from him?"
He laughs again, the sound more like a wheeze through damaged ribs. "Why don't you ask your pretty little fiancée?"
The mention of Caterina sends a shock of ice through my veins, though I maintain my carefully neutral expression. "My engagement is none of the Costellos' concern."
"That's where you're wrong." Sullivan's voice drops lower, taking on the cadence of someone delivering a rehearsed message. "You stole what didn't belong to you, and now you're going to pay. That's the message. Word for word, from Liam himself."
I stand slowly, processing this unexpected development. Could there be a connection between Caterina and the Costellos I'm unaware of? Some history I've missed despite my thorough research into her background?
"Marco," I call, turning away from Sullivan. "A word."
Marco follows me to the corner of the room, keeping his voice low. "What do you make of this?"
"I'm not sure yet." I glance back at Sullivan, who watches us with a smug satisfaction that sets my teeth on edge. "Could be referring to the weapons shipment we recovered last week. The Irish have been trying to expand their arms dealing."
"Possible." Marco doesn't sound convinced. "But why mention your fiancée?"
"Psychological tactics. Trying to create doubt." Even as I say it, I'm reviewing everything I know about Caterina Gallo, searching for any hint of a connection to the Irish that I might have overlooked. "What else did your men find on him? Phone records? Contacts?"
"Nothing useful. Burner phone, wiped clean." Marco shakes his head. "Whoever planned this was careful."
"Too careful for a simple hit." The pieces aren't fitting together properly, and I dislike few things more than incomplete information. "This wasn't an assassination attempt. It was a message delivery."
"An expensive way to send a note," Marco observes dryly.
"Unless the message itself was worth the cost." I turn back toward Sullivan, only to freeze at the sight that greets me.
