Page 46 of Savage Enemy

After jumping into the shower and dressing in one of my black Brioni suits, I headed down the hall to my office, sending a message to Tony while walking.

You drag that bitch out of her father’s house with a gun to her head if you must but you get her to my office now

Tony strode in right behind me.

“I’ll go get her myself, boss. Came to tell you we found text messages between Nico and a 312 area code.”

Nico, one of the men I was about to bury.

“Chicago?” I asked.

“Yep, Gold Coast... Moscatelli’s residential neighborhood. Promised him fifteen grand to get them inside.”

Apparently, Moscatelli had no problem breaking promises.

Or necks.

“I had the boys put his body in the basement,” Tony added. “Rocco’s picking it up, sending him through the incinerator.”

I nodded. “Good work, Tony. Get Bruce to drive you over to Capaldo’s house. I don’t want you doing any heavy lifting.”

Once Tony had shut the door behind himself, I stared out the French door overlooking the courtyard, working to subdue my anger while waiting for that traitorous bitch Benedetta to get her little ass up here.

I couldn’t believe all the lies unraveling before me.

First Val, now Benedetta.

They had chatted in my kitchen over cookies and coffee, for fuck’s sake. And they’d posed for the same photo with a group of all-Italian girls at sixteen. Yeah, they fucking knew each other.

Benedetta should have told me, her loyalty should have been to me, but instead she either played ignorant or covered for Val.

Thinking about it now, could’ve been she was willing to break our marriage contract because she didn’t want to find herself in the way of the fucking Moscatelli family.

She should have feared me more.

And she would soon learn that.

I had to wonder how much she actually knew, whose side she was on, and if she’d shared her knowledge with anyone else.

Was Benedetta responsible for Moscatelli finding Val?

Unable to rein in my dark energy, I prowled back and forth in front of the bookcase along the far wall, pausing only long enough to grab my grandfather’s vintage Dupont lighter.

With the muscle memory from years of practice, I repeated flicking the gold cap open and shut, listening to the swipe of metal on metal followed by the distinctly satisfying click of the magnets engaging again to close the top.

Open and close.

Swish, click. Swish, click.

The sound soothed me as I formulated strategic scenarios in my head while waiting for Benedetta.

Finally, Tony appeared with her in hand.

He gave her a rough shove through the doorway.

“Next time, you’ll respond to him immediately,” he said.

Then he nodded at me once before leaving us alone.

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