Page 35 of Tortured Hearts
“Not here,” Anton hisses between clenched teeth.
I arch an eyebrow. “And you are…?”
“Someone who knows all about you and your piece-of-shit father.”
Strange way to announce a death wish, but whatever. While I have no interest in defending my father’s name, I won’t tolerate disrespect. “Obviously, not, or you wouldn’t have taken that tone with me. I suggest you fix it.”
The three of us remain locked in a silent standoff until the man mutters something under his breath and releases a heavy exhale. “The name’s Sartorre, and I know why you’re here, so let’s just get this over with.” Giving Anton a curt nod, he starts toward the back of the restaurant.
I grab Anton’s arm. “What the hell’s going on?”
He glances over his shoulder and huffs out a heavy breath. “Trust me, Gianni … please.”
The “please” gets me. Made men don’t beg for shit, so if that word ever passes their lips, they’re not fucking around. But I’m also not a suicidal idiot, so I unclip my holster before following him down ahallway where Sartorre opens a door to a smallprivate room.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing inside. “I’ll bring the bread and wine.”
I watch him disappear through the swinging doors, then turn to Anton, my fuse nearly burnt to a crisp. “You have thirty seconds to…”
The rest of my inquisition trails off when Sartorre strides back in, a tray balanced in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other. We sit in silence as he presents a basket of bread along with two glasses. He goes to uncork the wine when Anton stops him.
“I can take it from here, Bobby.”
Bobby.It’s not a common practice to be on a first-name basis with a man you're about to put out of business. I clench my fists as Sartorre nods back, another cryptic look passing between them before he disappears through the doors again.
Anton’s movements are stiff as he uncorks the wine, filling both glasses before pushing one across the table. I’m curious what's behind the big production, so I humor him and pick it up.
“I take it Sartorre is a friend of yours.”
“More like an acquaintance with a mutual goal.”
“What kind of goal?”
“Revenge. Retribution. Restitution.” The muscles in his neck tighten. “Doesn’t Bobby’s hostility strike you as odd, as if you’d wronged him personally?”
My mind spins in so many directions I almost miss the obvious answer. “Cucciolameans little puppy in Italian. It’s what Victoria’s mother used to call her.” My vision becomes a kaleidoscope of rage. “Her mother’s maiden name is Sartorre. This is her uncle’s place.”
Chapter Twelve
GIANNI
Bobby Sartorre’s hostility makes sense now. I have his family’s blood on my hands.
A bomb goes off inside me.Marcello. That fucking sadistic bastard.
I lower my hand. “I’m not hurting Victoria’s family.”
Anton gives me an empty stare. “Nobody said you had to.”
“Then why bring me here, if not to…?” I narrow my eyes. He knows what I’m reaching for, but he’s not reacting. He’s just sitting there sipping wine like a spectator in his own circus. “Are you seriously trying to insinuate he doesn’t know who Sartorre is? It’s obvious he sent me here as a ‘fuck you.’”
“Of course he did. He knows exactly who Bobby is, just not where his allegiance lies.” There’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he picks up a slice of bread and points it at me. “The key to longevity is using situations and people to your advantage.Have you ever heard the saying, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend?’” He waits for my cautious nod before adding, “Maybe your father should’ve looked it up before sending me to Hackensack a few months ago.”
I’ll be damned.
“You could’ve given me a heads-up.”
“Cars and houses can be bugged,” he says between chews.
