Page 65 of Rosetti Family New York
Richard lifts his chin. “That’s a very dramatic way of putting it.”
I imagine hitting him so hard his grandchildren will feel it, but I restrain myself. I’ve waited this long. “You gave away her cat.You sold her off to marry me.” My voice rises, a low growl that betrays my anger.
“It seems to be working out well for you,” Richard says. “The Burmese rubies are of the finest quality, and you’ll get your share.”
This time, I let the anger show. “This isn’t about rocks, old man.” I grab him by the collar, yank him closer. His breath is stale, sour. I breathe it in, knowing he hates it, knowing it’s the closest I’ll come to devouring him whole. “If it weren’t for the blood tie, you’d be dead already.”
I see it now, the fissure in his composure. It’s small, but it’s enough.
“You’re pathetic,” he says, his voice less sure. “I’m not afraid of you, Rossetti.”
I release him, shove him back a step. His shoes scrape against the concrete, sending up dust. He adjusts his collar, trying to reclaim his dignity. I let him have it. I let him think he’s got some leverage. It’ll make his surrender all the sweeter.
“You should be,” I say. “Now, do you want to hear my business proposal?”
Richard’s eyes narrow. “Fine.”
I smile. “You disappear. Eleanor never sees you again. I don’t have to burn your world to the ground.”
The threat hangs in the air. Richard weighs it. He knows I can do it. But he doesn’t believe it, not yet. He lets out a breath, like he’s the one humoring me. “And in return?”
I don’t blink. “I let you keep breathing.”
Silence follows my words. Heavy, suffocating. The moment where everything hangs in the balance.
Richard breaks it with a dry laugh. “Always so dramatic.”
I drive my fist into his jaw. Hard bone meets soft flesh, and my knuckles sting with satisfaction. Price stumbles back, his eyes wide. Shocked. Terrified. Like he’s never been touched byanything other than money. His hand shakes as it rises to his face; he pulls it back and sees the blood. Wet, red confirmation that he can bleed—is bleeding. His confidence oozes out with it, pooling on the ground.
I hit him again. Something shifts under my fist, and I'm glad it hurts. I think about Eleanor, trapped under his thumb, living her whole life as collateral. Anger drives me. I land another punch, and it sends him sprawling to the dirt.
His limbs are awkward. Ungainly. He’s trying to make sense of what's happening. I breathe heavily, looming over him, my fists still clenched and itchy for more. He starts to scramble back, the grit of the pavement biting into his expensive clothes. He’s still got some fight in him. Still thinks he can come out of this with a win. I like that. It means I get to break him twice. I haul him up by the collar, his legs unsteady beneath him.
“Are you going to leave the city?” I spit the words at him, each one a jab.
He’s trying to clear his head, rubs at his temple like he can’t quite get his thoughts straight. “What? No—” That’s all I let him say before my fist meets his cheek. Hard. Swift.
“Are you going to leave the city?” I ask again, and he doesn’t look so sure of himself now. The hint of panic is rising in him, makes him human for once.
“Yes,” he says, the word forced out, barely a whisper over his labored breathing.
“How long will you stay away?” I drill him, and the desperation in his eyes is everything I want to see. He’s searching my face for a clue, a reprieve. But there is none.
He blinks, falters. “A month,” he says. It’s a guess.
I shake my head. His wrong answer earns him another punch. I put my whole body into it, watch him slump against me, dead weight. Barely conscious. Barely anything.
“Wrong, buddy,” I snarl, holding him up by the shirt. “You’re going to leave New York, and you’ll never come back. Am I right?”
There’s a flicker of resistance—pride maybe—before fear takes hold. He nods weakly. “I’ll never come back.”
I let my hand drop, and he crumbles to the ground, a sack of bones.
He’s hurt but not broken yet. I can’t have that. Not until he knows what it’s like to feel helpless. I kick him in the side, and he rolls over, wheezing, blood dripping from his mouth onto the dust.
“How do I know I can trust you?” I ask, staring down at him, daring him to defy me again.
“I’ll go,” he says, his voice cracking like a boy’s. “I swear.”
