Page 228 of Bitter Poetry
Jero nods.
“I suspected. I was conveniently out of the way when both incidents happened… Christian was supposed to report to someone else, but I stepped in and asked if he could work with me. Ettore didn’t object. I didn’t even know why I did it at the time. Perhaps he represented a connection to your father.I respected Stephano Barone… Not that they’re remotely alike, you know. I was a nobody until the day Don Cedro asked me what I wanted to be. Mr. Barone did the same when he was underboss and asked me to be his enforcer. I didn’t get to pick Ettore. I questioned things a good soldier probably shouldn’t. Then Christian came along, and, no offense, but it was obvious Ettore wasn’t his first loyalty.”
“You’ve protected him,” Dante says.
Jero shrugs.
I blink rapidly.Well, fuck.There’s something about having the facts laid out that creates a paradigm shift. I wonder how many times he looked out for me when I didn’t even know?
“He has a tendency to go off-script, so, you know, that’s been a challenge. But yeah, as best as I could.”
“Would you like to continue doing that?” Leon asks seriously. “Because I love my cousin, but I’d also be the first to agree, he would benefit from supervision.”
“I’m right fucking here,” I say, although my words lack heat.
“Yes, sir,” Jero says. “I would.”
DANTE
The soldiers have been dealt with. Only three of them didn’t make the cut. But that’s how it goes in our world. Their deaths will not be drawn out, and that’s as much as they deserve.
Now it’s time to deal with Ettore.
As I enter the room where he’s being held, my mood turns dark. Just by existing, he leaches joy from the world.
He’s bound, gagged, and zip-tied to a chair, naked. A single high window casts light over his pitiful form. To the right is atable holding a few items one might consider useful to such a scenario, including a water cooler—I don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about hydration. Still, I appreciate the gesture by whoever set up the room.
Ettore glares between Leon, Christian, and me with his one good eye. The other side is a vacant hole… several fingers from his right hand are likewise missing. I can’t tell exactly how many, but the blood-stained bandage suggests at least a few. His face is swollen and misshapen. Bruises litter his body. It looks like the Russians made good use of him before they handed him over.
We’ve had him for three days. Once our doctor checked him, to ensure he wasn’t going to die too soon, we left him to wallow until we were ready.
He’s on the road toward death. Today, he will reach the end.
A knock sounds on the door. Christian turns and opens it, and a soldier pushes Cedro in his wheelchair into the room.
Ettore snarls behind his gag.
The door closes again.
“Ettore,” Leon says. “You can probably imagine, I’ve been waiting for this day.”
Ettore rocks in his chair, hatred and fear etched into his bloodshot eye.
“Nothing to say?” Leon asks, smirking. “I did consider removing the gag, but then I decided it was better this way. Nothing you have to say is of interest to me. Only the sounds of your pain. And I can still enjoy them from behind a gag.”
He turns to Cedro.
Cedro nods.
He turns to me.
“Have at it,” I say. “I think we’ve all got some rage to work through on this piece of shit.”
Leon steps forward and punches Ettore in the face. The blow rocks his head back. The wounded gasping sound escapingaround his gag is barely satisfying. Leon must agree because he punches him again before shaking out his hand.
“I’m out of practice.”
“I’m not,” Christian says, cracking his knuckles.
