Page 152 of Empire of Seduction

“Of course, amore.”

Madre di dio, that word on her lips. It was like a starting pistol firing in my brain. I lunged across the seat and grabbed her face in my hands, diving in to kiss her. I caught her mouth with mine and thrust my tongue past her lips, needing to taste her. I wanted to inhale her, to drink her in like a man dying of thirst. She kissed me back just as eagerly, her fingers pulling on my coat to bring me closer. Then I had her in my lap, arms holding her close as she shoved her hands in my hair.

I closed my eyes and let myself drown in her. I focused on her breath on my skin. The swirl of her tongue against mine. Our noses brushing. The warmth of her body atop mine. It was both a reminder and a promise, and I knew I was the luckiest man alive.

Because I had a lifetime of this ahead of me.

She eased her mouth along my jaw, hovering near my ear. “I have to ask—were you serious about the mausoleum?”

A dark satisfaction rolled through me . . . and I reached for the door handle.

twenty-six

. . .

Vito

Maggie flew backto Paesano yesterday. I already missed her. Before she left, she came to the compound and met my family, some of them for the first time. As anyone might’ve predicted, she and Gianna took an instant liking to one another, whispering in a corner for almost an hour. I suspected Enzo and I were the topic of conversation.

I knew I would be too distracted if she was close, so I sent her home, with the promise of seeing her tonight. After we dealt with the Red Raiders, I planned to stay in Paesano for a week before returning to Toronto. So much needed to be done, and I had a lot of time to make up for with Maggie. Whatever it took to make this relationship work, I would do it.

Despite my many protests, Enzo and Giacomo Buscetta insisted on returning to New York with me to deal with the bikers. On the flight, Giacomo seemed quiet and intense. My older brother, on the other hand, nearly vibrated with anticipation, his leg bouncing ever since we departed Torontowith a small army of my men. He was itching to bloody his hands.

Enzo’s hackers learned everything we needed to know about the Red Raiders before we even left the airport.

“The pezzi di merda responsible for the fire fled to a town called Utica,” Enzo told us. “They’ve been laying low at a bar there called The Regency Lounge. Their leader is named Pete Mercer, who is called Baron for some dumb fucking reason, and he’s there with four others.”

“I spoke to Mercer once,” I said. “He obviously didn’t get the message.”

Giacomo remained silent, relaxed in his seat with his eyes closed, but a smile curled the corners of his mouth. The opposite of my brother, who sneered, “I can’t fucking wait.”

We didn’t waste any time after landing in Syracuse. We loaded into our rental cars and drove to pick up our weapons. Buscetta used a local connection to get us HK45s and shotguns, plus the three cans of gasoline that I requested. Once armed, we set off for Utica.

Five or six motorcycles were parked near the front entrance of the lounge, a neat row of chrome and leather, flying Raiders colors. The energy in the car crackled as we pulled up to the curb a short distance from the bar and got out.

“Cesare, wait by the side door,” I said. “Tommaso, there must be a kitchen or back door. Find it. We’ll go in two minutes from now. Look for bikers, weapons, and anyone that doesn’t have to be there. I want to flay these fuckers alive and I want no surprises. The rest of you stay out front. If anyone needs telling, The Regency Lounge is closed for the night.”

Tommaso and Cesare left to cover the secondary exits. Enzo, Giacomo and I approached the door, while the rest of my men surrounded the front of the building.

The three of us walked calmly into the bar. The place was dimly lit, which was no surprise. Neon beer signs and the lamp over the pool table provided most of the light, with two televisions above the bar adding a bit more. A jukebox droned from the back of the bar next to what looked like an ancient cigarette machine.

Quickly, I assessed the occupants. A bartender, a drunk nursing a beer at the end of the bar, and three bikers playing pool. Perfetto.

One of the bikers put down his cue and came toward us. “You three are clearly in the wrong place,” came a gravely rasp I recognized instantly as Baron’s. “Why don’t you all get lost before something bad happens.”

“We’re in exactly the right place,” I said, facing him. “Baron.”

Cesare entered and blocked the side door, which caught the attention of everyone in the room. One of the bikers started slowly edging toward the kitchen door when Tommaso stepped into view, halting the biker’s progress.

Glancing at Tommaso, I asked, “What did you find?”

“No kitchen staff. Three pistols that I dropped in the deep fryer.”

Suddenly, the bathroom door banged and a fourth biker entered the room, fumbling with his zipper. Giacomo shot him in the chest twice with his pistol, spattering the wall behind him and dropping the biker to the floor. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the bartender standing from a crouched position. I shot him in the head, shattering the mirror behind the bar just as his sawed-off shotgun blew a huge hole in the ceiling.

That left the drunk and three bikers remaining. None of the bikers moved, our guns aimed squarely at their chests.

The smell of propellant hung in the air like burned hair and pennies, and a haze of gun smoke floated toward the ceiling. As the ringing in my ears gave way to near silence, I glanced atthe drunk, who was trembling on his stool. His loose pants were soaked between the crotch. “Get out,” I ordered, then watched as he stumbled away from the bar and disappeared through the front door.

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