Page 1 of Twisted Embrace

CHAPTER 1

Enzo

Boom!

The cracking sound of the traitor’s head hitting the concrete echoed in the oversized space. As soon as he was down, I grabbed a lone chair that had made it through the fire from months before, planting it over his body and pinning him down. Then I took a deep breath as I thought about how much I enjoyed being in New York.

The food. The club life. The women. Hell, I even enjoyed the Broadway shows. Unfortunately, living here wasn’t a viable option with the newly established empire in Italy.

At least I’d enjoyed the Big Apple while I was here.

I was brought back to reality as the asshole under the chair moaned. I lowered my gaze, studying his ashen face.

Death was inevitable, a way of life.

In fact, I’d studied it over the years, reveling in its playful viciousness, the brutal lessons learned over the years. I was no longer the young boy fascinated by the power it offered, becoming a ruthless killer as required by my place in society. It was a high that most couldn’t understand, feeding the darkness like nothing else could.

People went about their day-to-day existence ignoring the fact that at any given time fate could intervene, their worthless lives slipping away from them at a moment’s notice. Or with no notice at all. I’d learned over the years that shedding a single tear for a soul cast into hell or feeling a second of remorse was considered a weakness.

My father, like most leaders in the Cosa Nostra, had been unforgiving, his expectations for his only son and the heir to the throne of the Lazarro Empire harsh. But his cruel teachings had provided a solid education in methods of playing God.

I’d become proficient in acts of cruelty, either with or without toying with my enemies first. That depended on time and my mood, which was usually tainted by darkness. I was considered a sadistic man even in the ranks of soldiers who added murder on their resume of tasks. Maybe because I enjoyed the hunt as much as the act itself.

I would never claim to be a good man because of all the atrocities I performed on a regular basis. However, lying wasn’t one of them.

The man underneath the four legs of the chair I was sitting on might disagree since we’d once been friendly. Only he should have known that making friends with a viper could eventually end in his death. In this case, I’d promised him salvation if he came to the meeting of his own free will, mostly given I had no time to waste on tracking the sorry son of a bitch down.

He sputtered, gasping for what would be his last breaths, the thick wooden rung of the chair digging into his neck. Whether he knew that or not was of no consequence. I’d gotten wind he’d opened his mouth, talking to the wrong people about my family’s business. As with any rat, his life meant nothing.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Igor?” Igor Petrov was the estranged brother of the New York Bratva Pakhan, a turncoat who’d offered his loyalty in exchange for protection and cash. If I were anyone else, I would have turned him over to the Russian beasts as a treat for them to feast on, but the events of the last few months had left me hungry for bloodshed.

“Pu… Pu…” He coughed, his chest heaving. My soldiers had been rough on him after bringing him to the empty warehouse. But they’d known to keep him alive long enough for my subsequent visit. The bleak space was illuminated by the bright morning sun coming in through bullet holes driven into a wooden plank covering the windows, installed to keep out the homeless and drug addicts. The damp space had the distinct stench of mold and urine, a repulsive combination but fitting for someone who’d betrayed his own kind.

The Russians were more savage beasts than men, the kind who’d eat their own young for profit. I found the pitted shimmers of light comforting, although I doubted Igor would say the same.

“What’s that? I don’t think I heard you.” I leaned over the chair, peering at his ruddy complexion. He’d spent too much time sucking down bottles of booze over the years. Hadn’t someone told him alcoholism would eventually kill him? I eased off the chair, tossing it to the side. Then I crouched down beside him. “I don’t have more time, Igor. I’m sorry we can’t chat longer. If you want to clean your conscience before you meet your maker, now is the time to do it.”

He wasn’t being offered redemption. And he certainly wasn’t being offered forgiveness. I never forgave or forgot. What I was offering him was a chance that he’d still be accepted in hell.

“What information did you provide?”

The man was huffing and puffing. Perhaps my men had gone too far. I fisted his shirt, yanking him off the hard concrete floor. “Talk to me.” In exchange, he clutched onto mine, his bloodied knuckles from where he’d tried to defend himself staining my freshly pressed shirt. At least I’d had the forethought to bring a second one with me.

“They know… you’re in… town. That’s all.”

Most men in my position wouldn’t give a second thought to trusting a rat, but I was a damn good judge of people. He wasn’t lying, but he was keeping a secret. He blinked, then his hand slipped away. No, the fucker wasn’t allowed to pass out from pain or anything else. I smacked the back of my hand across his cheek to keep him awake.

My patience was reaching an end.

I stole a quick glance at my watch, disgusted the interrogation had taken this long. Maybe my skills were slipping. Honing them would be necessary.

“Talk to me or your death will be painful.”

“Please… I have… news that will… help you.”

“What could you possibly offer that would matter to me?” The man had been proficient in providing details about the Bratva, some of which I’d used to secure additional business in New York, but I doubted anything he could offer would be earth shattering.

He dragged his tongue across his lips, tears welling in his eyes. I’d known men to blubber as they begged for their lives. That wasn’t the case with Igor. There was torturous pain in his eyes for an entirely different reason. In an action I’d undoubtedly question later, I offered him a moment of compassion. Maybe I was curious as to what was tearing him apart inside. More than likely, my usually correct intuition believed whatever he had to offer was worth my slight sympathy and my time.

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