Page 37 of Explosive Union
“This place is a fucking mess. Not to mention the men coming here and using it as a whore house. Tell me, Niccolò, did you know the men were doing this?”
His lips thin as his eyes narrow slightly. He’s pissed that I questioned him. “Those men,” he spits, “are not mine, Rocco. You already know this.”
I nod. “I do. But someone has to know that those men aren’t doing what they’re being paid to do.”
He steps up so that he’s close to me. “That is true. But those men belong to one person, and one person alone.”
I have six captains. There’s a hierarchy in the famiglia. There’s the Don—my father. Then there’s the Underboss—me. The consigliere, Raffaele—my father’s brother. Then there’s the six captains—Andrea, Gabriele, Edoardo, Niccolò, Elio, and Dario, then the lower end of the hierarchy are the soldiers, the made men that work for us. Their hopes of making it up the ladder.
“Gabriele,” I hiss. The very man I sent to find them. “Dario, get that fucker and his men.”
My brother nods quickly and turns on his heel, heading out of the room in search of the bastard, who I have a feeling knows exactly what his men have been up to.
The door to the office opens and Dawkins pulls the young woman behind him, his hand tight around her wrist. She’s no longer strung up. She’s more lucid, her gaze wide as she takes in both Niccolò and I.
“Do you know who we are?” I ask, unable to keep the anger out of my tone.
She nods quickly, her gaze bouncing from me and Niccolò. “Rocco Gallo,” she responds hesitantly. “You’re the Italian mafia. Are you going to kill me?”
“That really depends. If you answer my questions honestly, then I’ll think about letting you live.”
Again, she nods quickly.
“What is your age?”
She looks away, but not before I see the fear enter her eyes. The hand on her wrist tightens, and she flinches.
Before I get a chance to say anything, Niccolò moves. His hand snaps around Dawkins’ neck, and he pulls him away from the girl. She releases a cry as she drops to the floor, her hand cradling her wrist.
“You do not fucking touch her again,” Niccolò growls as he pushes Dawkins against the wall, his hand tight around the fucker’s neck.
“Your age,” I demand once again.
“Sixteen,” she whispers, but we all hear her.
The roar from Niccolò is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It’s demented, angry, and filled with pain. He moves quicker than I could have ever thought a fifty-year-old man could and throws Dawkins against the wall, releasing him with a thud.
Seeing the drugged out young girl must bring back some dark memories for Niccolò. His daughter went off the rails after seeing her father kill someone. She ran away from the guards that were meant to protect her. By the time Niccolò saw his daughter again, she was high on drugs and had become a whore to pay for her addiction. Two weeks after he urged her to return, she was found dead. Many of the men believe that Niccolò killed her himself, unable to deal with the shame that she had brought upon the family.
“Where’s your family?” Niccolò questions her, his voice tortured.
She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she continues to whisper. “I haven’t seen them in three years.”
Niccolò’s eyes flash with anger as he turns to me. He’s ready to kill the asshole.
My cell rings, and I pull it from my pocket. “Yeah?”
“The product’s here, not to mention even more girls,” the rumble of Elio’s voice has me smiling.
Today, my men get to unleash their full anger.
“The men that are there, are to be brought here. And hurry up, Elio. Niccolò and I are getting twitchy fingers.”
Niccolò chuckles. “There’s only one man I want to kill, and the fucker has already pissed himself.”
“It’s time to start cleaning out the Famiglia,” I tell my brother, and end the call.
I turn to the young girl. “Name,” I rumble, pissed that there’s even more of them.