Page 37 of Sinner's Vows

Pain is nothing. It goes away once you’re dead. Something everybody begs for once pushed too far. My time will come. Some days, I can’t wait.

“They obviously didn’t only have baseball bats,” I say as we take the maze to where the men are locked up. Stephano’s team confiscated guns and knives once they had these boys cornered.

“Sigh. They should have known better.”

We walk past the two guards keeping an eye on our prisoners, and I dismiss them. This isn’t a spectator sport.

Then we’re standing in front of the two cages. Both men are shackled but have been allowed some space to move. Just enough, though—we don’t want them to think this is the circus and they’re part of the act. There’s a faint whiff in the air, of fresh shit contained in the closed buckets in the corners. Our guys look worse for wear what with their beat-up faces and scruff. They both have buzz-cuts, but these boys will never shave or have a haircut again.

They glance at us, shackles clanging and scraping as they get up, that nerve-wrecking sound of metal against metal, in itself a form of torment if you time it right.

“Okay, Boris and Boris. We’re here to talk,” I say, pulling up a chair. I gauge their ages at mid-thirties at least. The one guy has a bit of a pouch and is probably pushing forty-five. And he wanted to take on Stephano? Fuckwit.

For now, I’ll give them a chance to open up and fill us in. Luca does the same, and we sit, facing the men chained to a system the Don designed.

Each one has a metal choker around the neck connected to a pulley system for partial or complete asphyxiation. With their arms and legs chained to the point where they’ll strain in all directions like a star, it’s the neck that’s the weight-carrying joint. It’s right out of some medieval Torture for Dummies handbook, but with a modern twist. These ones are remote-controlled.

It’s a system we’ve perfected, the Don and me. Let’s just say, I know exactly how far to push someone with it. And it’s clean. Mostly.

“So, Boris and Boris. You work for Franco Fiore. Want to tell us how that happened?”

20

DOMINIC

Boris and Boris glance at each other through the bars of their respective cells. There’s nothing for them to gain by being silent. This might not have clocked yet, but at some point, it will.

“We came for him,” the one Boris says, his English laced with just a smidgen of an accent.

I glance at Luca. “Why him?”

“He took the Trapani woman and four of our men who are still missing since that Friday night. We were supposed to take only the woman and make sure she got on a private jet to Italy with her brother Vincenzo. That was the deal with Franco Fiore.”

Good flow. I nod in understanding. “And what’s this guy’s name?”

We need to establish exactly how much they know about the Scaleras and our operations before they can’t talk anymore. I feel somewhat flayed open as if someone is dissectingIl Consigliofrom behind a screen. There’s a bigger force behind all this, and we need to figure out who it is. Good thing we’ve gone Code Red on security.

“He’s Steph Scalera.”

“And what else can you tell us about Steph here?” I say as I reach out for Luca’s shoulder and give him a squeeze. Boris and Boris have no clue there’s an identical twin in the mix. They clearly didn’t do their homework and rushed the job. Imagine calling StephanoStephas if they’re fucking family. Now that ticks me off. Fuckwits.

“He is part ofIl Consiglio.”

“And? What do you know about his family?”

“He has brothers. We’re not sure how many. One got shot years ago.”

“I see.” They haven’t identified me as one of those brothers yet. “And what do you know aboutIl Consiglio?”

“It’s the gang that rules the ports this side of the East Coast.”

Gang. I don’t really care for the word. We’re anorganization. Anoperationor afamily-run business.

But it’s true. The ports of Boston, Providence, and New Haven are all our territories. Uncontested for decades. Fuck it. The Don is dead, and we might have signaled it’s business as usual to the capos ofIl Consiglio, but outsiders who would want our turf have no need to play nice.

Until they land in here. I suppress a sigh. This better not be the rekindling of a turf war the Don won with blood and brutal force decades ago.

One positive, though: Boris and Boris haven’t earmarked the Scaleras as the kings ofIl Consiglio.To these dumbasses, we’re just worker bees. Good.

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