Page 52 of Bastard Prince
But Rock was not done with me yet. He continued down yet another set of stairs, and when we entered the room on the next level, I couldn’t help the gasp that left me.
“Holy shit, Rocco,” I said, turning in a small circle as I stared at the space. Row upon row of guns stared back at me, all shapes and sizes. I recognized several racks of AR-15s and AK-47s, as well as a bevy of pistols for every use and user. There were several shelves of grenades, gas masks, and even rows of MREs and rations. “I had no idea you guys were preparing for the apocalypse.”
Rock chuckled. “Yeah, the boss likes to be prepared for anything.”
Not saying anything else about the massive weapons cache he had just casually shown me, we went down yetanotherflight of stairs, opened the last door, and stepped inside.
What greeted me was chaos.
Enzo and Trick were standing in front of a row of chairs, three men in various states of bloody tied to them. A woman in a skimpy dress stood in the corner, her face streaked with make-up standing as evidence to her crying as she clutched at her stomach like she’d eaten at a bad buffet.
Before I could even process what I was seeing, Enzo was on me, his warm hands cradling my face reverently as he kissed me like I was the air he needed to breathe. After a moment, he stepped back, then he scowled down at me and wiped my face with his shirt. When he pulled back I could see the crimson stain on the fabric.
I hadn’t had blood on me in a long time, and I could feel my adrenaline picking up at the thought of a good old-fashioned interrogation. This might be exactly what I needed to clear my head and let me finally figure out who was fucking with my life.
Again.
But first, I needed to sort out whatever the fuck was happening in this absurd bunker.
“Enzo, what the hell is going on here?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Enzo
“What’s going on is I’ve let too many people get away with too much,” I stated flatly, staring into my wife’s golden eyes. “These assholes aren’t nearly as afraid as they should be.”
Francesca furrowed her brow, leaning to the side so she could see around my body. When her gaze landed on the three shitheads behind me, her face lit up.
“Oh, good. An interrogation. I was hoping I’d get to play this time.” She clapped her hands excitedly.
“You think you can make these punks talk?”
The smile that spread across her face was chilling, and it made me hard as fuck.
“Oh, I think I can be very persuasive.” I watched as she sauntered over to where the three stooges sat, the first two still nursing their various wounds and hurt feelings, the third staring at me like his glare alone could kill me. She stopped in front of them, hands on her hips as she took them in, studying each of them with her practiced eye. The greaseball was sulking in his chair, hunched over and breathing shallow, eyes darting between me and Francesca, trying to discern which one of us was the bigger threat.
At this point, even I wasn’t sure what the answer was.
The skinny guy sat up straight, eyes wide as he physically vibrated in his chair, and if he breathed any faster, he was likely to pass out.
The meathead was staring at her, studying her with more intensity than I cared for, and I stepped in close, my thumbs hooked behind my belt buckle as I studied him right back.
This fuck knew something but fuck if I knew what it was. Something told me I wasn’t asking the right questions.
Finally, Francesca made her choice. She moved over to the greaseball, her face showing concern as she gripped his chin between her thumb and finger, lifting it and inspecting the damage I’d done to his cheek.
“What’s your name?” she asked conversationally.
“Andy,” he muttered suspiciously.
“It’s not really fair, is it, Andy?” she said, shaking her head. “The big bad mobster brings you down here, ties you up and then beats on you when you’re defenseless.” His eyes widened, shocked at her sudden show of empathy, but then he nodded.
“He’s a coward is what he is,” he whined sourly, his nose wrinkling in my direction. “I could have probably beaten him in a fair fight.” Rocco laughed out loud, and Benny shook his head, but Francesca smiled.
“You think so?” She made a show of inspecting him, running her hand down his arm from shoulder to wrist. “You know, I bet you could. You’d at least give him a run for his money. You know what I think?” Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she withdrew a shiny purple object, about four inches long. “I think we should test that theory.”
With an impressive flick of her wrist, Francesca flipped the object several times, revealing it to be a beautifully crafted butterfly knife. She danced the weapon around her hand in a dazzling array of flips, twists, and spins. She wielded it like a baton, sliding it deftly along her knuckles and between her fingers like she was a magician.
