Page 107 of Of Grief And Gratitude

I nodded and stepped back. It wasn’t often that Dante had to get his hands dirty. Or, at least, it wasn’t often that anybody witnessed it. The man was ruthless in a quiet way, more subversive than our father. He’d turn the world against you and then take everything you had before taking your life.

The bat was rather old school. He twirled it, then let it fly, cracking into Giuseppe’s ribs. He couldn’t scream with the wind knocked out of him. It came out like a hitched groan, then a wheeze at the end. Dante hit the other side, then worked methodically down his body, no doubt leaving his thighs completely bruised.

“Do you need him to stand?” Dante asked Cosimo as he lined the bat up with Giuseppe’s knees. The man pulled one foot back, then the other, like he could somehow avoid what was coming.

In response, Cosimo pulled out a metal chair, the legs scraping against the cement floor. “I can work with whatever we’ve got.”

Dante nodded and took out Giuseppe’s left knee, knocking the kneecap off where it should have sat. I cringed at the sound before Giuseppe cried under the hood. Few men could withstand broken kneecaps with dry eyes.

And that was just the first side. Dante lined up his strike on the right knee before the left swelled. Giuseppe choked, sagging against his bonds as the manacles bit into his wrists, taking his weight.

“Might need that chair now,” I called out to Cosimo, who was doing something at the table like the beating didn’t phase him. I suppose it didn’t.

He shrugged in response. “In a minute.”

There was a tap on the door, and we turned to see my father enter, leaving his men on the other side to guard the hall. Ettore Neretti stood tall as he strode forward in his black pinstripe suit with all the authority of the leader of Chicago’s most powerful crime family. He presided over every room he stood in.

His expensive black Italian leather shoes clipped against the cement floor, almost as shiny as his black, slicked-back hair. His Rolex flashed in the light as he crossed his arms over his chest. He stood somewhere around Niccolò’s height, fit but slim. His imposing figure was all ego and proven brutality.

That was the thing about having the kind of power he had. It didn’t matter that we’d all despised him since childhood. Loyalty was loyalty, whether forced or given in adoration. With my brothers and me, it was forced. I schooled my features, pressing my lips flat so I wouldn’t sneer.

“Get him down,” my father ordered, inclining his chin at his brother. “I want to look him in the face.”

Cosimo dragged the chair across the floor, grinning as he lowered Giuseppe until he slumped in the seat. He pulled his arms behind the chair and looped the chain through the metal cross rails on the back, securing him in place. He yanked the hood off his head, revealing our uncle’s bruised, bloody, tear and snot-stained face.

“Come on, princess. Rise and shine!” he taunted cheerfully, removing the ball gag.

Giuseppe blinked against the bright lights, finally noticing my father. “You!”

He tried to lunge forward, but he only succeeded in throwing himself off balance, falling to the floor with the chair. Niccolò and Cosimo righted him again, hands on his shoulders, to keep him in place.

“Fuck you, Ettore!” Giuseppe spat on the floor, just missing my father’s shoes. His big brother didn’t bother to step out of the way.

“Silence!” my father’s voice boomed as his hand cut through the air. “I will do the talking.”

Giuseppe snapped his mouth shut, his face red with anger.

My father circled him slowly. “It’s amazing what you can find out when you know where to look.”

I glanced at Dante, who shrugged. Whatever it was, my father hadn’t told him yet.

“You’ve got Russian friends, Giuseppe.”

When my uncle didn’t respond, my father continued, “It seems you’ve found yourself some people who will do what you ask in exchange for money and the promise of status. Funny, since you’re just an underling when all is said and done. Did you tell my sons that the body they found with my wife was your FBI informant?”

Five sets of eyes looked at Giuseppe. My hand fisted at my side with the implication.

My father looked at me pointedly. “The explosives were the work of a Bratva munitions expert, known for his flair for destruction.”

He meant the needless carnage the explosion had caused on the street. My lip curled as I looked at my traitorous uncle.

“You killed my mother,” I hissed.

Giuseppe opened his mouth, but my father’s fist slammed into his jaw before he could speak. “My wife! The mother of my children.”

He hit his brother again, and blood trickled between Giuseppe’s lips. It wasn’t enough. My feet moved without thought, and I looked down to find a pair of bolt cutters in my hands. My father turned his head as I approached, handing him the tool. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted him to do.

“Make him hurt,” I growled, stepping back to watch.

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