Page 19 of Of Oaths and Secrets

I reach for the butcher’s apron hanging on the wall, the heavy material cool against my skin as I tie it around my waist. The simple act of donning it settles something inside me, a familiar ritual that brings a certain clarity to my mind.

“Paolo, get me the razor blades.”

He nods, moving swiftly to gather the tools. The men in front of me start to stir, their eyes widening as the reality of the situation begins to sink in. They start to mumble, to plead, their voices weak and hoarse, but I’ve heard it all before.

“Please, we don’t know anything! We were just following orders!”

I ignore them, rolling up my sleeves with meticulous care, exposing the corded muscles of my forearms. The first razor blade gleams in the dim light as Paolo places it in my hand.

“You were following orders, huh?” I muse, inspecting the blade. “That’s a nice excuse. But you see, I’m not interested in excuses. I’m interested in results.”

I step closer to the first man, his breathing quickening as I tower over him. Without another word, I press his hand against the arm of the chair and slide the razor blade under his thumbnail. Maximum pain with minimum blood loss.

His scream pierces the air, a raw, guttural sound, but I remain unmoved, watching as a few droplets of blood well up and drip onto the cold, tiled floor.

“I know nothing,” he gasps out between broken sobs, his eyes wild with fear.

“Okay then,” I mutter, my voice devoid of emotion. I move around to the other side, grabbing another razor blade from the tray. With methodical precision, I slide it under his other thumbnail. This time, he doesn’t even manage a full scream—hestops mid-wail, eyes rolling back as he passes out from the sheer agony.

“Boss, you’re running late,” Paolo reminds me, his voice steady but with an underlying urgency.

“I know,” I groan, frustrated by the delay. “But I need answers now. I will not jeopardize something important for this stupid party.”

For a brief moment, I feel a slight twinge of something—guilt, maybe, or some other emotion I can’t quite place. But I smother it quickly, focusing on the task at hand. Nora must know she’ll never make the list of priorities, and that’s something she’ll have to accept.

I turn my attention to the other man, noting the darkened stain spreading across his jeans. The fear radiating off him is almost palpable. He’s seen enough to know what’s coming, and I can’t blame him for losing control. Many men did the same when faced with this version of me.

“You know what hurts more than razor blades under the nails?” I ask, my voice calm, almost conversational. “A knitting needle in the corner of the eye. It goes straight to the nervous system.” I smile—an icy, calculated expression that does nothing to ease his fear. “Let me show you.”

I grab a needle from the tray, its thin, sharp point gleaming under the dim light. As I bring it closer to his eye, just barely brushing the corner, he cracks.

“Bonanno! It’s them!” he sputters, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush.

I straighten, still holding the needle, my mind processing the information. “Francisco Bonanno?” I ask, more out of habit than actual belief. The Bonannos have never been friends with the Lucchese, but we’ve managed to maintain a delicate truce. Besides, Francisco’s recent loss—his wife’s death and the burden of raising his twins—makes it hard to believe he’d be behind this.

“No, not Francisco,” the man gasps, his voice shaking. “One of his men. I-I don’t know his name, but he works with some of yours. We-we know all the shipment details until next March.”

I lower the needle, considering his words. If this is true, someone close to us has been feeding information to the Bonannos. This is bigger than just a lost shipment—it’s a breach, a betrayal from within.

This changes everything.

I turn to Paolo. “Get him to tell you what they have planned for tonight,” I say, my voice cool and controlled. “Get the names of everyone who’s had access to the shipment schedules. I want a full list by the end of the night.”

Paolo nods, already pulling out his phone to relay the orders.

I glance at the men before me, their fear-stained faces a reminder of what’s at stake. “And make sure these two stay alive until I decide what to do with them.”

With that, I hand the needle back to Paolo and grab my jacket. It’s time to switch gears and play the role of the dutiful fiancé.

But as I head to the engagement party, the weight of this new information hovers. The Bonannos’ involvement complicates things, and as much as I want to dismiss the party as trivial, I can’t miss it because Francisco Bonanno should actually be here, or at least his second-in-command, and I can use the opportunity to get a feel.

As I step out of the basement, I steel myself for the evening ahead. The game just got more interesting.

When I arrive, the party is already in full swing, and I curse the entire event under my breath as I adjust my tuxedo jacket and step into the main room. At first, no one notices me, but as the chatter dies down subtly and the crowd parts, I see where the focus is—where Nora is.

I find her standing with my brother, looking like she’s about to bolt, and her mother right beside her, a glass of champagne in hand, beaming at Leo as if he’s some sort of messiah.

Nora is dressed in an austere maroon dress—perfectly suitable for the bride-to-be of the Lucchese sottocapo. But contrary to what I would have expected, I find myself missing the vibrant girl full of color she was the day we went to buy the engagement ring. Now, she looks sad, lost in the room, and I’m struck by a strong compulsion to protect her.

---