Page 29 of Untamed

Matteo snakes his arm casually back around my shoulders, drawing me close again, turning back to his friends without missing a beat.

“Occhi a posto,” he says with a cocky grin. “Hands off, gentlemen. She’s family.”

The guys laugh, a few of them raising their glasses again in mock surrender, but Matteo’s arm stays firmly around me, light but sure, like he’s making a point.

Family.

The word feels foreign on my skin.

The walls are soundproofed, but I can still feel the bass thudding through the floor under my boots.

The club is alive upstairs, music, lights, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. But down here, in the private rooms hidden below La Notte Oscura, it’s quiet. Cold. The kind of quiet that comes before something violent breaks loose.

I’m standing in the middle of the room, watching the man in front of me.

Sergio Bianchi.

A pawn.

A fucking idiot.

He’s tied to another chair, wrists bound behind his back, ankles lashed to the legs so tight he probably can’t feel anything below his knees anymore.

Not that it matters.

His face is already a ruined mess, one eye swollen shut, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, a cut splitting his lip clean through. His chest heaves shallow and wet, each breath a ragged wheeze.

“You know why you’re here.” I say, my voice steady and calm, the kind of calm that makes grown men piss themselves. “And you know what I want.” Sergio coughs wetly, his whole body shaking.

“You were aiming for my nephew, Matteo, but you missed.” I inch closer, my boots echoing against the concrete. “And you caused the death of two innocent people. Extended members of the Russo family. Because of you, a young girl watched her parents die right in front her. You and the son of a bitch that put the hit on my nephew broke her world in half and you’re going to pay for it. You’re going to pay for every tear that she shed.” Sergio whimpers something that might be words, or maybe just a broken apology.

I don't care.

All I need is a name.

“Sergio, you’re going to die today,” I say calmly, rolling my sleeves up to the elbows, exposing the tattoos crawling up my forearms. “How you die, is entirely up to you.”

“I can make it quick and painless.” I say, my voice low, almost conversational. “Or I can drag it out for weeks, peel the skinfrom your bones and ensure you feeleverything. Either way, I’m going to bleed the truth out of you.”

Sergio flinches, jerking against the ropes. His fear fouls the air, sharp and acrid.

“Give me a name.” I drawl, stepping closer. Kneeling in front of him so he can see it, see exactly how this ends for him. Sergio shakes his head, too fast, too desperate. I reach for the switchblade tucked in my belt; flip it open with a clean snap. “No?” I ask, almost curiously. “You think I won’t make you?” I trail the tip of the blade lightly along the underside of his jaw, feeling him flinch. “Parlare,”Talk.I say, voice dropping lower. “Or I start carving the answers out of you piece by fucking piece.”

Sergio tries to speak, tries to plead, but his jaw is too swollen to form real words.

I cock my head to the side, studying him.

Pathetic.

“Non ci sarà redenzione per te,” I hiss, pressing the blade harder against his skin. “Pregherai per la morte prima che io abbia finito.” I smile slow and sinister.

There will be no redemption for you. You'll beg for death before I'm done.

Sergio’s breathing stutters. His good eye goes wide.

Good. I like the taste of fear. It makes this so much sweeter.

I press the flat of the blade under his chin, lifting his face toward mine.

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