Page 27 of Capo
“You broke our deal, Devon.”
“No, I—I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I obviously can’t let that slip. You understand this. Yes?”
I don’t even have to look at Ivan. We’ve played this game for twenty years. Ivan grabs Devon’s arms and pulls them up on his back. Devon screams, a scream that is abruptly silenced as I slam my fist into his midsection. He gasps for air, his face turning beet red as he folds forward.
“Boss!” he wheezes.
“I’m not your boss, Devon.” I uppercut him, splitting his lip, then I punch him in the stomach again. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare. You do not break a deal with Luciano Salvatore.”
“I didn’t!” he squeals as his knees fold and he sags. I hit his face again, and probably crush his balls as I knee him in the groin. Ivan lets him go and Devon falls into a heap on the floor, tears streaming down his swollen bloodied face. He holds out a shaking hand, as if trying to pacify me, then he bends over and vomits. I grab his hair and force him to look at me. The puddle before his knees reeks but I’m pretty used to the foul odors a human can produce. They pee themselves, shit themselves, bleed, and throw up. It’s worse for them than it is for me.
Devon’s face doesn’t look like it did a few minutes ago. It’s swollen, with fresh blood glistening in his eyebrow, dribbling from his nose, over his lips and down his chin.
“Don’t kill me,” he cries.
I laugh. “I can’t kill everyone I do business with. There’d be no one left. Now, will you ever be late to a meeting again?”
“No, sir!” he whimpers.
“Good,” I say and push his face into the vomit, grinding his cheek in the sticky substance. Devon retches and flails while I laugh. I’m not particularly amused, but it’s part of the show. He’ll forever remember Salvatore, the psychopath you should never cross. He’ll tell others and they’ll all cower before me. I straighten and nod for Ivan to let me out. I’m done with business for tonight. It’s time to play.
From far away comes the sound of laughter and music. I steer my steps in the opposite direction, away from the lively party in my club room. There’ll be hookers, cocaine, bragging, brawls. Normally, I’d sit in the middle of the mayhem and breathe it in, savor it, but tonight I have other plans. For the first time in a long while I feel a sense of excitement.
My private hallway is dead quiet. There’s nothing indicating that another person breathes nearby. I wonder if Ivan followed my directions. I wonder if she went and died on me. That would be a bummer, but it would of course solve the issue with her being an annoying as fuck witness.
The last few steps down the carpeted stairs to the basement, my heart rate quickens and my cock twitches to life at the thought of a naked, brutally beaten woman, locked in and crying helplessly. I still don’t know how to play this, and I can’t believe in all these years I’ve never done this before.
It’s eerily silent. The deep red steel door reveals nothing. I pull open the hatch and glance inside. In the far corner lies a shape, curled up in a fetal position, covered by a white towel. Her blonde hair is splayed in a mess of knotted tresses. She doesn’t stir. She’s fucking sleeping. Dark anger boils up inside. She’s supposed to be a blabbering mess, not peacefully asleep. I unlock the door, step inside and slam the door closed behind me with an ear-splitting bang. Chloe flies up with a whimper, her eyes unfocused and confused at first, then she sees me and if she could push further back, she would have.
That’s better.
I step up to her and crouch, then I rip the towel off her body and toss it aside. “Things like these, you earn,” I growl.
A warm scent of strawberries wafts up and I inhale deeply, savoring it. Her hands fly up to cover her chest, then she doubles over and cradles her arm, crying out. I narrow my eyes as I take in the cast that is skewered and has slid down. She won’t heal well like that. I want her mind bent, not her arm.
“Please,” she whispers, looking up at me with the one eye she can open properly, the other still swollen and the skin around it discolored. Her iris is a startling blue and her eye is bloodshot. Fresh tears begin to form and silently trickle down her cheek.
“Please what?”
“What do you want?”
I grab her hair and pull up her head, making her whimper. “Please what?”
She stares at me in confusion. I smirk as I see how it dawns on her, how she fights it, how she decides to refuse.
“Let me out of here, please.”
“Please what?” I roar in her face, leaning in as I twist my hand in her hair, forcing her to let go of her wounded arm, and try to dislodge my hand instead. Big fat tears stream down her cheeks. I shake her. “You can make life easy or you can make it difficult. See, I’m not that bad. I’m giving you a choice.”
“That’s the same fucking shit your hitman said. How fucking cookie cutter mobster of you,” she grits out.
My hand darts out on instinct and I slap her cheek. Hard. “You dare to be mouthy with me?” I snarl.
She touches her cheek, wincing. “I’m not gonna play your game!”
I let her go and stand, looking her over. “Spread your legs.”