Page 42 of Ruthless Sinner
The doctor carefully inspects the plaster cast, running his fingers along the rough edges and checking for any signs of discomfort. With a furrowed brow, he asks me a series of questions about tightness and itching, taking note of my responses. His movements are precise and deliberate as he pulls out his prescription pad, scribbling the word Oxycodone in neat, looping letters. “Get this filled,” he rips off the sheet and hands it to Dante. “You don’t have to take it. It won’t make you feel weird or anything. If you’re talking about what I gave you the other night, it was the sedative that made you feel different. This is just pain medication, and it’ll take the edge off.”
He can call it whatever he wants; I’m not taking it.
“Let me check your stitches.” Silas removes the bandage and inspects his work. “These will be ready to come out next week. You’re healing quite well, but there will be a scar. There are some lotions and creams you can pick up from the store that reduce the appearance of scars. I prefer Mederma, but you can try a few and see what works for you.”
“No.” I reach up to gingerly finger the intricate stitching that laces my skin together. “I-I’m fine. The scar won’t bother me.” I want to tell him that the scar is proof my father tried to break me and failed. I want to explain that the scar is a reminder that I survived and overcame another obstacle meant to kill me. I have dozens of them on my back and thighs, some self-inflicted. They tell my story. They remind me that I am a warrior. They are the roadmap of my past. I would never want to see them fade because every scar was needed to make me the person I am today.
Silas nods his head as if he understands. The crook of his smile tells me that he gets it. Even as he moves on to Dante, checking his stitches to see if they need to come out, I can tell that Silas Stone understands me a great deal more than anyone else in this world. He’s seen things. He’s healed people. He might not fully grasp my needs on a cellular level, but he respects me enough not to argue.
Chapter 44
Dante
“I
s this a wise idea?” Enzo wrinkles his nose in disgust, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His eyes dart around the dimly lit alleyway, searching for any signs of danger. “The Destroyers have a reputation.”
Their reputation is exactly what I’m in need of. “You’ve witnessed it as well as I have. Tommaso has gone underground. We need to find a way to ferret him out, and the Destroyers can do that for us.”
The last thing I ever wanted was to get tangled up with a motorcycle gang, but we don’t have a choice. It’s been almost two weeks since anyone has seen Tommaso Martinelli, and rumors swirl that he knows both Saverio Castiglione and myself are hunting him down. His attempt to eliminate me failed, and now I’m more determined than ever to seek revenge and put an end to his treachery.
Regrettably, the only individual who has had any contact with Tommaso is his drug supplier. This forces us to turn to the Destroyers and humbly plead for their assistance in taking down the head of the Martinelli family.
“We could wait them out,” Enzo suggests. “We don’t need to get our revenge right now. We can take our time, come up with a really good plan, and?—”
“No,” I cut him off. “We have to find him now. The longer we wait, the more likely it is Tommaso disappears off the face of the Earth and we never hear from him again.” Or worse, he disappears but sends his men to finish the job. I can’t live with increased security forever. Nor can I live with Salvatore and Luciano for months on end. I love my brothers, but they’ve got to go.
Enzo’s hands twist and fidget with the car keys, a nervous habit. “It just makes me anxious dealing with the Destroyers. They have no class or tact. And they don’t know how to talk to people. They’re unrefined.”
The families have always grumbled about the motorcycle clubs in the area, but we’ve had turf wars with the Destroyers. They’re not really a club so much as they are a gang dedicated to ruining all the progress we brought to the Midwest. They are predominantly situated in Rosedale, but they travel for work. When you’ve got a motorcycle and paying clientele, driving a couple hundred miles a day isn’t a dealbreaker. To them, money and power are worth any price.
“Oh, god,” Enzo groans as four bikers pull into the abandoned lot, “they brought backup. We should have brought backup. I’m still basically useless.”
The gunshot did a number on Enzo’s confidence, but I can’t build him back up right now. There’s work to be done. “It would be open season on the Destroyers if they took us out when we requested a sit-down. Nothing’s going to happen.” But I’ll admit, as they began to encircle us like a pack of hungry wolves closing in on their prey, I get a little nervous, too.
Thankfully, the deafening roar of the motorcycles comes to an end after two rotations. The four riders expertly park their bikes in perfect synchronization, the sound of the engines cutting off abruptly.
The first to take off his motorcycle helmet is Raiden Drake, a well-known Destroyer who runs the drug operation. He tilts his head from side to side, his neck popping with each movement. “Terlizzi,” he says with a curt nod.
Our people don’t interact with the Destroyers that much. Like Enzo said, they’re crude and uncivilized. When we kill someone, we bury their body. When the Destroyers kill someone, they shout it from the rooftops. They are savage and barbaric, and I handle them like a bomb that could go off at any moment. “Drake. Thanks for coming.”
His fellow riders take their cue from him, shedding their heavy helmets and dismounting their bikes. Despite the scorching 87-degree evening, they are all clad in matching black leather jackets bearing the patch of the Destroyers motorcycle gang on the back. “You said it was a catch and release, so I brought my best guys. Wolfe, Gunnar, and Apollo,” he points at them each when he calls their name. “What’s the deal?”
Raiden isn’t the small-talk type. Again, like Enzo said, they don’t have much class. “We know you deal drugs to Tommaso Martinelli’s guys. We want Martinelli.”
They laugh at me as if I just asked them to steal the Declaration of Independence. “I’ve never met Martinelli, you dumb fuck,” Raiden shakes his head. “What makes you think I’m going to get to him?”
“If you can get to his guys, you can get to him. They’re all in hiding. If they’re stupid enough to score from you, they’re stupid enough to lead you to their boss.” I’m not easily offended; Raiden Drake calling me a dumb fuck doesn’t affect me in the slightest.
“What if we do get him?” Raiden crosses his arm over his chest. “What then? You expect us to hand him over to you?”
A sly grin creeps onto my lips, like a shadow passing over the moon. “No, you dumb fuck,” I return the insult, “not without a cash incentive.”
Raiden’s expression twists and contorts with anger, his eyes flashing with fury. He falls silent for a moment, turning to the man next to him, who goes by the name of Wolfe. They share a brief, wordless exchange through subtle eyebrow movements and a slight quirk of their lips. Finally, Raiden’s attention returns to me, but the tension in the air remains palpable. “We all heard about the break-in, Terlizzi. He the one that done it?”
Raiden’s grammar is atrocious. “He sent his men, but yeah. It was Tommaso Martinelli.”
His lips curl into a sneer before he spits on the ground. “You can’t call yourself a man if you aren’t willing to do your own dirty work. If he wanted to hurt you so bad, he shoulda done it himself.”