Page 10 of Irish Brute
Antonio Fucking Russo. I should have recognized his voice back in the bedroom. My Fishtown Boys have sparred enough with his Mafia rats.
Jesus. Russo killed his wife? And pulled Samantha’s name from the dead woman’s phone?
And Samantha heard it all.
No wonder she was shattered.
“Russo,” I say, moving into the room. I take care to set the two syllables like bricks in a row.
“Kelly.” He does me the same service. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I glance at Samantha, trying to see how she wants to play this. She’s actually trembling, worse than anything I saw yesterday. She licks her lips. Tries a word. Fails. Swallows hard, but doesn’t try again, only looks at her feet.
She’s clearly not thinking straight. So I decide to do the thinking for both of us. “Samantha,” I say, stepping between her and the Italian goons. “You left your ring by the sink again. A fella will start to think you’re having second thoughts.”
With my body hiding my action, I slip my signet from my pinky, the one set deep with the Fishtown Boys’ Celtic knot. The four-part circle has no beginning or end, the same as my loyalty to family, born and made.
Not that I expect any Mafia eejit to understand the symbol.
I take Samantha’s hand, her left one, and slip my ring onto her fourth finger. I take care to center the signet so it looks like a brand.
She stares at her hand like she’s never seen a piece of jewelry before. I squeeze her fingers, trying to send a message, even though I’m not sure what I’m saying.
I’ve got your back.
Don’t let that bastard win.
You take care of the lawyers; I’ll take care of the Mafia.
It’s one thing to send a message to Russo that I don’t give a fuck about him or his jumped-up runners. It’s another to keep my back to the enemy for any longer than necessary. I give Samantha’s hand another quick squeeze, and then I turn to face the East Falls Crew.
Russo glances at the gold ring. Squints. Curls his lip in a sneer. And he says, “Giovanna, time grows short for Bettina Leone. Get your things. We’ll discuss this in my car.”
“Samantha,” I say, stressing her name because that Italian one seems pretty important to Russo. “Don’t move an inch.”
“Giovanna.” Russo sounds like he’s just heard the saddest story in the history of the world. “We’ll discuss your weakness once you’re home. Don’t worry,cara. All women make mistakes.”
I up the ante, drowning out Samantha’s strangled reply. “Like your wife did? Marrying you?”
A muscle twitches in Russo’s right cheek, but he doesn’t answer me directly. “Giovanna,” he says a third time, and I decide I hate that name. “My patience is not infinite. Elisabetta understood that. And you will learn too.”
“Big words, Russo,” I say. “I bet you think they hide your tiny, shriveled cock. No wonder your wife stepped out on you.”
“Mywife—” he shouts, and then he wrestles back control. “You know nothing about my family,stronzo. Giovanna has understoodla cosa nostrasince she was a child. She will obey her don now.”
I glance at Samantha. “You have obviously never met this woman.”
Russo puffs air between his lips, a dismissal of both Samantha and me. He glances at the sofa, with its pile of pillowsand the snow-white blanket that shouts Samantha slept alone last night. “And you know her so very well.”
“I know she keeps a St. Jude medallion next to her pearl earrings.”
“Half the women I know pray to St. Jude.”
“She only wears silk panties.”
“Shut your mouth, Kelly. Before yourpisellinomakes you say things you’ll regret.”
But I’m not about to take orders from him. “Her favorite lube is Fuck Water, you stupid shit. And she uses it to take my fat Irish cock.”
