Page 23 of The Taker

Ironic.Because the warring feelings of shame and lust eating me alive feel nothing like happiness.

8

ROCCO

Watching Leo on my phone surveillance app is nothing compared to being with him in person. The moonlight streams in through his uncovered window as he lay in bed. His torso is bare, the top of the blanket just skimming the bottom of his navel and showing off his lithe, compact frame. He’s reading his new e-reader I left for him in the library. I logged into his account on it and stocked it with all of his ebooks, audiobooks, and some new ones I thought he’d like based on what he’s currently reading.

I may be a deviant bastard who stole him from his quaint little life, but I treat my toy well.

He’s been flicking through the pages steadily, absorbed in the same book as yesterday, something about a vampire who falls in love with a mortal and the whole debacle that follows them. The hobby suits him, something quiet and imaginative for my little lion. Somewhere he can temporarily escape after a long day of me pulling his tail.

His bedroom is the only place I have monitored, and I already regret it. When he got up to get a glass of water, I had to sit here in suspense the whole time, wondering where he went.Tomorrow, I’ll have someone from Max’s crew come by and install cameras in the kitchen, living room, and library.

“Sir? Do you want me to bring him in now?” Piero Romano, one of my soldiers, asks me. He’s only a few years older than Leo, but double his size. His straight black hair falls into his eyes, and he shakes it away with a flick of his head.

Sighing, I motion for Piero to bring in one of Ronan’s street rats he and his brothers found earlier today into the warehouse. As much as I’d love to sit and watch Leo all day, work still exists. I’m still a capo forNueva Notteand I have a lot of loose ends to tie up—mainly finding and disposing of the Brass Bruisers before they can cause me any more trouble.

Easier said than done, apparently.

Piero’s younger brothers, Elio and Milo, drag a bloody, beaten up body into the center of my warehouse, leaving a trail of blood behind them. The Romano brothers are affectionately known asLe Mannaie del Vettore—The Vettore’s Cleavers. They love butchering up the poor, unfortunate morons who try to cross us. They’ve become a valuable asset in procuring information for me these past few years…but they may have overdone it this time.

“Did you bring me a rat to interrogate or a corpse?” I ask them.

“Sorry, Mr. Vettore,” Elio says. I’ve never heard him speak before, because Piero usually talks for the three of them. His voice is softer than I’d expect from a man who easily weighs forty pounds more than his brothers and towers over them.

Piero touches his brother’s arm, probably to stop him from saying something stupid, but he continues. “He said something that was uncalled for, and I got carried away. He’s alive and still has a tongue and jaw, so he can talk. It won’t happen again.”

I appreciate his integrity. “See that it doesn’t. You three feel free to stick around and watch the show if you want.”

They eagerly agree, throwing the body on the cold, hard cement before taking seats on crates lining the room. They may be the infamous Vettore Cleavers, but they learned their savagery from me. And by the looks of how beat up this almost-corpse looks, they can still stand to learn something about long-term torture methods.

I step up to the man bleeding all over my floor and hoist him up by his thinning hair, until he’s kneeling. The overhead fluorescent lighting highlights every bruise, cut, and poorly done tattoo on his bare torso. He starts sputtering for air, choking on the globs of blood spewing from his mouth.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, even though I already know from the files Piero sent me earlier. I always start with a few softball questions to ease them into it before I strike.

“My n-n-name is Greg,” he wheezes as he holds his midsection. On closer inspection, it seems one of the brothers broke several of his ribs. Those hurt like a mother fucker.

That’s the least you get when you fuck with the Vettorefamiglia.

Crouching down, I ask, “Do you know why you’re here, Greg?”

“No, please! Help me!” he whines, his voice sounding like nails on a damn chalkboard. For fuck’s sake, how does he think lying will help his circumstances at this point?

I know you know why you’re here, Greg. Just admit it so we can all move on with our evenings. I have a toy to play with.

I hold his jaw in my hand and dig my fingers into his eyes, trying to hold back my laughter when he squeals like a piglet. He’s too weak to wrench his head away and takes it like the scum he is.

“Greg, I’m going to save you a lot of time. Your bloody, battered future corpse ended up in my warehouse because my soldiers already scoped you out and did their homework. Forreasons unapparent to me, Ronan made you part of his inner circle.”

I let go of his face, and his squealing turns into loud, hopeless cries that echo and bounce off the walls of the warehouse. I backhand him so hard he almost falls over onto his side. “We already know you know where Ronan is. Do us all a favor, and tell us what we need to know. That way I can kill you quickly and go back home to my little lion cub.”

“Aww,” Elio coos, a big, goofy smile on his face. Piero smacks him upside the head, mumbling something to him while Milo snickers at them both. “Ow! What! It’s nice the boss has someone at home waiting for him. That’s the best reason to wrap this up. Can I help Mr. Vettore? My friend Vinny showed me something last week I wanna try.”

I give him a blank, dead look, undecided on whether or not I should discipline him for interrupting me, or admire the courage it took for him to speak his truth. There’s no shame in believing in love.

“No! NO! Keep that fucking freak away from me!” Greg screams, his already hoarse voice crackling in distress.

Well that settles it.

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