Page 22 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“That’s fair. I wasn’t expecting you to answer. So, I’ll rephrase. How many of you are still out there?”

He spits on the ground, hatred filling his eyes. “Don’t need to answer that either, wop.”

I chuckle. “Wop, huh?” I raise my gun and fire, targeting his right rotator cuff. I roll my eyes when he screams like a baby.

Disappointing.

“Keep it down, lad,” I gently chide. “You don’t want to scare the neighbors or lose your other arm, do you?”

He immediately quietens. That reaction alone tells me Sal is right. This one is worth taking back home. He should sing quite nicely, which is convenient for us, but I shudder to think that this might be someone’s soldier. I cannot imagine any of my men being so easy to break.

I shoot Sal a look and dip my head in a nod. Job done, I holster my gun. “Third basement,” I say, referring to one of the warehouses purpose-built for holding and questioning.

“Sure, Dante. And what about them?” Sal gestures to the other three on the ground.

“What about them, Sal?” I ask, already knowing he’s about to suggest something deeply disturbing.

“Should we not box and mail them back to Boston?”

I grin when I’m proven right. “Nah, bury them. I’m sure the ones who escaped will fill in their friends back home on what happened. By the way, Sal, you might want to talk to Nico’s wife about the shit show that goes on in your head.”

He grins. “Yeah, I know. I already tried, but she kicked me out after three therapy sessions.”

“Three? I’m sorry for being a self-righteous prick, then. You lasted two sessions longer than me.”

We both guffaw, but our laughter is cut short by Pietro’s sudden return; his usual sure strides are hesitant, and his face is lined with worry.

“Phenomenal work there, Pietro,” I say, gesturing toward the I-90.

“Thanks, Boss.” Pietro’s brows are still furrowed.

I’d taken the wheel from Sal when we reached Urban Elixir. Sal’s acute self-preservation instincts would never let him deliberately crash a car, so Pietro and I did it. And from the looks of things, the big man didn’t even get a scratch.

“What is it, Pietro?” I ask.

“Two things. First is Don Vitelli. I can’t reach him. As Underboss, in his absence, you call the shots . . .”

“I’m aware of that, Pietro. And since you didn’t disobey a direct order from your Don, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn’t worried at all,” Sal pipes up.

I glance back at Sal. “That’s because you’re an idiot. Pietro here isn’t.” I turn back to Pietro. “Nico will have to go through me before he gets to you, so you’re good.”

“‘Preciate that, Boss.”

I’d gladly take a bullet for any one of my men, but once again, a deep sense of affection and respect for my brother fills me. I’m almost certain that Nico didn’t take Pietro’s call because of me. Nico guessed exactly what I would do tonight, and giving a contradicting order would make the men pull back and leave me vulnerable.

“Pietro, you said there were two things?” I remind him.

He nods, glances at our hostage, and then approaches my ear. “I found . . . something else lurking on the far end of this parking lot.”

I rear back and recount. We dragged out four Irishmen from the wreckage. Two died from their injuries, Sal offed one, and the last one is currently groaning at my feet. “Another one?”

He nods.

“How? Have those ones who escaped come back for their friends?”

Pietro shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She was alone and on foot.”

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