Page 50 of Kneeling to Candy

Piero snaps, hitting the table with his fist. “Are you fucking joking me with this shit, Atlas? You know my personal experience with my sister forced to marry a pig who raped her. Do you believe I’d subject another human to the same abuse my sister endured?”

“No, I don’t,” Atlas says stoically. “But I still need to ask the questions and uncover the truth.”

“Fuck you and your asinine questions.” Miffed, Piero points at his head. “Why would the possibility even cross your mind?”

Atlas jaw ticks from side to side. He’s not used to being yelled at or having his actions questioned. A deep scowl transforms his face, shadowing his eyes in darkness.

His voice is low with warning as he says, “I ask these questions to rule you out, Piero. To cross you off the list of suspects any justice system would create based on your family history alone. I do it to clear your name and move on to more likely culprits. It’s my damn job, and I won’t let the FBI railroad you into being their prime suspect if I can help it.”

The two men stare at each other, sizing each other up. Another uneasy minute passes before Piero looks away with a resigning sigh. The room releases an audible exhale.

Jesus, that was intense.

Bikers and mobsters don’t mesh usually. Have one unintentionally insult the other, and you could be in the middle of a turf war. Atlas handled the crucial confrontation like a seasoned veteran.

Piero glowers, but his anger is reined in, replaced with a cold exterior. “As infuriating as your ludicrous questions are, I understand you asking them and appreciate you doing it to eliminate me and my crew from your list of suspects.”

“We good?” Atlas asks, sizing up the mobster.

Piero smirks at our president. “We’re family.”

Atlas’s lips turn down. “No offense, hermano, but your track record with offing relatives doesn’t comfort me.”

The don snickers. “We don’t share blood. Therefore, you’re safe. You’re mio fratello by choice.”

“And you’re mine,” Atlas swears vehemently.

“As your brother, I’m not too happy with you at the moment.”

“Understandable.”

All humor gone, the don sinks deeper into his chair and drums his fingers on the table. “How many?”

“As of today, sixty-four women total. Three from Fort Collins. Thirteen from Pueblo. Ten from Boulder. Nine from Durango. Five from Fairplay. Seven from Aspen. And seventeen from Denver,” Atlas answers solemnly.

Piero snarls something in Italian. His protection detail stiffens behind him. I may not speak his native tongue, but I can tell it’s bad news. Whatever he’s muttering, it’s serious enough to make his men skittish.

“War is no good when we don’t know who we’re fighting,” Atlas answers the don, able to interpret Piero’s thick Italian.

“Reminding Denver residents I own the territory may be the only thing to stop these vile pieces of shit from entering my city. Sometimes fear keeps you safe,” Piero retorts ominously. He jabs the table with his index finger. “And I’m responsible for keeping my city safe, am I not?”

“You don’t want the residents of Denver to fear you, Piero,” Atlas attempts to reason. “If you aren’t like your cousin who reigned before you, you won’t instill terror in those in your community.”

“Fine. What do you suggest?” Piero asks, with a tired sigh.

“Tell us what you know of your cousin’s past dabbles in the flesh trade.”

Piero raises an eyebrow. “Why? Do you suspect someone close to Lorenzo took over after he was killed?”

Atlas shrugs. “Possibly.”

The don scoffs. “Impossible. I cleaned house when I came to Denver. Anyone who worked for Lorenzo, who was loyal to him, or favored the old ways was…” Piero pauses before smiling sinisterly at Atlas. “…terminated.”

Piero’s men muffle their laughter.

Yeah, we all know what his termination entails.

“You did a fine job of removing the filth within the Denver Bianchi organization. However, Lorenzo had his hands in many business dealings, entertained a lot of wealthy men with the women he provided. Perhaps it was a client of his, seeing an opportunity to make a big payday.”

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