Page 39 of Tortured Hearts
Anton clears his throat. “Remember, don’t be a smartass.”
I glance out of the corner of my eye to find his expressionless face all but glued to the door. He’s like a bloodthirsty mannequin with his strings stretched too tight. All it’d take is one sudden move to slingshot him down all four flights of stairs.
“I’m offended,” I huff. “Name one person in a position of authority I haven’t shown due respect.”
“Your father.”
“Name two.”
“The feds.”
“Okay, name three.”
He exhales a shallow breath. “Fuck. We’re dead.”
The words are barely out of his mouth when the door opens, and Sergio reappears with a curt nod. “You may enter.”
We walk to the center of a room surrounded by dingy white walls. Other than a few chairs scattered along a twelve-foot-long conference table, it’s patheticallyempty.
“So, the rat returns.”
I stare across the table where Benito Toscano, don of New York and the ruler of the Five Families, sits dead center. He’s a ruthless bastard who’d sooner slit my throat than look at me, but at least he’s a straight shooter. I respect a gun that’s aimed at my face.
I shrug. “The cannoli in Rhode Island sucked.”
Anton curses under his breath.
Toscano clasps his hands, the cufflinks at his wrists pinging against the wood. “If it were up to me, your brains would be splattered across the sidewalk. Lucky for you, your underboss and my top guard have somewhat of an inconvenient friendship.”
I slide a withering stare between Anton and Sergio, my fingers flexing at my side.These fucking pop-up alliances are irritating me. I don’t like being blindsided,especiallyin front of men who’d happily parade my severed head up and down the East Coast. “I’ll be sure to thank him later.”
Anton stiffens beside me while King Benito and his three idiot knights attempt to use silence as a power move.Amateurs.They should try engaging Becca in a battle of wills. That woman can whittle a man’s balls down to acorns.
“It’s been a long day.” Stepping forward, I gesture to the empty chair across the table from Toscano. “Mind if I sit?”
“Is he serious?” Carmine Damiano, don of Connecticut and the man most likely to shoot my dick off and give it to his daughter as a hood ornament, swings his toupée-capped head up and down the length of the table. “He can’t be serious.”
Toscano ignores him. “Sitting is entirely up to you, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I wouldn’t recommend doing half the shit I’ve done in the last forty-eight hours, yet here I am. Why stop now? Holding his gaze, I stride toward the table with all theconfidence of a man who’snotabout to wear a lead jacket and take a seat. Judging by the wave of arched eyebrows, they’re probably wondering if I have a death wish.
Maybe, or maybe shitting on authority is just a God-given talent.
I nod to the half-empty bottle in the center of the table. “So what are we drinking?”
Toscano pushes a bottle of Heaven Hill 17-year-old Barrel Proof bourbon toward me while tipping his chin over my shoulder. Within seconds, Sergio slams a glass next to my hand before sliding back into the shadows.
“Cool trick.”
“Loyalty is an invaluable asset. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
I tip the bottle and fill the glass to the rim. “I didn’t come here to be insulted, Benny.”
I half expect to get shot for that one. Instead, he chuckles. “Why did you come here?”
“Why did you accept?”
“I’ve already told you.”
