Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
A fat bead rolls down his cheek when I finally speak. “A Cosa Nostra bloodline doesn’t excuse your sons’ actions.”
He blinks, startled, as though the concept is foreign. “Matteo, surely you understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” My tone is calm but unyielding. “Your children think being born into a powerful family means they can decide which rules apply to them. That isn’t how this works. Not anymore.”
Nico shifts beside me, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. Elio’s jaw tics, but he stays silent, letting me speak for us all. I might be the muscle of our operation, but I’m also smart. I know the footwork Giovanni and Dante have been putting down the past six months will benefit our chapter more than it will harm it.
I simply refuse to tell them that since I have a sick fucking kink for pissing off my brothers.
I’m not saying I get hard when they retaliate to my teases with violence.
But I’m not denying it either.
The don tries to recover. He smooths his expression into something diplomatic. “Our families have handled matters internally for centuries. It’s tradition.”
“Tradition?” I slowly and deliberately roll the word off my tongue. “Tradition doesn’t protect rapists. And it sure as fuck didn’t protect Lucia from what your sons almost did.”
“They were not participants at the event—”
“But they organized it!” I roar, my voice bellowing. “Against the ruling of the Caruso clan and the changes we’ve implemented over the last six months. They set up the entire fucking thing. They may as well have spat in our faces.”
I never understood Dante’s concerns about raising a daughter in the Cosa Nostra until I learned how serious the Adamis’s crimes were. The gig Lucia booked last week wasn’t a one-off event. They’d held these types of parties twice a week for the past eight months.
The math is atrocious, and the statistics didn’t even come from the women they harmed. Since ninety percent of the victims couldn’t live with what happened to them, the details came from their surviving family members.
“If you want to get your rocks off with a gang-rape stimulation, hire a prostitute and state your terms in black and white for all to see. Do not disguise the gig as requiring a stripper for a bachelor party.”
Don Adami searches for a way to regain control of the conversation.
I don’t give him an inch of leeway.
“Your placement in the Cosa Nostra protects you from losing your life for this mistake, but it doesn’t make your family untouchable. Your sons will not get a free pass because of who their father is.”
The don swallows hard, his eyes flicking to Nico, then Elio, then back to me. “We will handle it.” His confidence has vanished now, replaced with something fragile. “I give you my assurance.”
“That isn’t good enough,” I say again, stilling the room.
The don’s men exchange nervous glances as my brothers stand like pillars on each side of me, silent but determined. We’re outnumbered, but every man in this room knows that means nothing. We took down a hundred men in under ten minutes when we walked into a room filled with more filth than a seedy back-alley abortion clinic.
For the first time since we walked in, Don Adami’s cheek twitches, a telltale sign he’s genuinely unsure. Exhaling, his shoulders drop.
“Then tell me what will be enough.”
I hold his gaze, unblinking. “I want that.” I eyeball the family crest ring on his pinkie finger. “While it’s still on your finger.”
He laughs as if I’m joking.
I’m not.
“Then order your sons to the basement.”
The lump in his throat is too thick to swallow. “Matteo—”
“Did I sound like I was asking permission? These are my terms. Either you abide by them willingly, or I’ll remove entire fucking limbs for every minute you waste delaying the inevitable.” My smirk is the smuggest to date. “Starting with your withering, no doubt wrinkled dick.”
His voice is a sob. “I didn’t know. I swear.”
“Power doesn’t erase responsibilities, Anton. It increases them.”
My words land hard in his stomach. I can see it in the way he looks away before extending his hand. I bruised his pride, and taking his ancestors’ ring in front of his soldiers while it’s still on his finger is the ultimate insult. It’ll take him months to recover—if he ever does.
Good.
I’m done playing nice.
A flicker of pain passes over Don Adami’s face when I remove my knife from my bag of tricks before slicing it across his pinkie finger just above the base knuckle. He’s lucky his fingers are too fat for his ring to fit on his ring finger. Although his grip will be fucked until his death just from losing a pinkie finger, all psychopaths know that the ring finger has the most associated tendons.
A spray of fresh blood follows the pop of a dislocated knuckle, and a collective hiss bounces through Don Adami’s office.