Page 68 of Ruthless King
Gino Mangenello reacted similarly when it came to his daughter’s life, smug and pompous, so convinced I wouldn’t stoop to his level.
“Close your eyes, Kisa,” I tell the girl.
She doesn’t, her body trembling, tears glistening on her cheeks. With my hand on her shoulder, I manually spin her to face the wall before turning back to Salvatore.
“I could make you beg,” I tell him, raising my voice to drown out his gurgling breathing. “Make you squeal and squirm. But you know what? Frankly, I’m too damn tired. All I want is proof. A name. An account. Whatever mercenary you used to carry out your plan. Tell me.”
“Fuck off!” He spits again, this time, narrowly missing my cheek.
I don’t even realize my hand is in my pocket until I feel it—the handle of a weapon I don’t even remember putting there. All this time, I must have carried it with me in these fucking pants. Slowly, I withdraw it, watching the light play off the silvery surface of the tiny blade.Tigre’sdagger. Safiya’s dagger.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I tell Salvatore as his eyes twitch toward the blade and back. “You ‘kill’ animals, like all those fucking toys you have around the place. There’s mercy in that word. But what happened to Olivia? That was a slaughter. To Vincenzo?” My voice breaks. I can barely say his name. “That? That was murder.”
Salvatore chuckles, and what I mistake for a grimace at first I suspect is another reaction entirely—he’s raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that whelp is who got his brains blown out? I heard Mischa launched an attack… He just got the wrong man—”
An impulse seizes control of my limbs, and I’m too sober to even try to suppress it. I slam my hand down, driving the knife blade first into his chest. That glorious smell grows more pungent, that song rising to a crescendo. Howling, Salvatore jerks, his eyes rolling, but the wound won’t kill him outright. Oh no…
“A name,” I demand in a voice that resonates an octave deeper.
Salvatore falls silent as his eyes flicker in recognition. Despite everything, I have to laugh. That wasn’t the voice of the good old Donatello I’ve spent the past few years pretending to be. It’s a tone that feels more natural to me than breathing. The guttural cadence ofIl Mostro.
“A name,” I say, relishing in the resulting echo.
All this time, Salvatore’s mouth has been wide open. He’s trying to scream—he just can’t find enough air. Poor bastard.
“Cat got your tongue?” I ask. Then, I rip the blade out to see if that helps.
And it does. He makes a sound this time, sharp and piercing enough to echo in a beautiful song. And that song…
I hum along to the melody—it’s music to my fucking ears.
“Give me a name,” I command a second time.
He gurgles. Croaks.
But not once does he look at his little girl, shaking with silent tears. Not once does he hold my gaze. Not for one damn second, does he show an ounce of regret.
“You won’t tell,” I deduce in disgust, rising to my feet. “You always were a secretive little cunt. You’re just buying time until your backup arrives. But if you think I’ll play your game? Think again. Blowing your brains out is a death far too good for you. But I’ll spare your daughter the horror of watching you die. I won’t give you the satisfaction.”
Turning, I grab the girl by her arm and approach a set of doors on the other end of the room. Time is ticking, and I’d prefer not to waste a second. Still…
As her frightened whimpers reach my ears, some impulse makes me hunt for somewhere to put her. The new Donatello deserves that ounce of mercy. As suspected, the doors open onto a closet—but one so damn big I whistle in approval.
“Nice. Who knew there was so much money in being a lying cunt, huh?” I look back, but Salvatore seems too busy groaning to answer me.
The girl, I leave beside a hanging series of multi-colored suits, tailored finely enough to suit Fabio’s most fashionable wet dream. She curls in on herself, her eyes so damn wide. I turn away, clenching my jaw so tight it throbs. As I do, I discover a promising weapon dangling from a custom rack—ties, all of them silk. Grinning, I grab one, a deep crimson which seems fitting for the occasion.
I return to Salvatore, winding the material between my fingers as I scan the room itself. It’s an old habit—how I loved to ingrain every moment in my memory. I wasn’t the kind of man to shy from his crimes.
I reminisce over them.
Salvatore’s bedroom is admittedly one of the most boring places I’ve killed in. Apart from the king-sized bed, the bastard has a marble fireplace overlooking a view of the property. Not too far from where he lies is a doorway leading to a large bathroom with a sunken tub and gold fixtures.
And there, resting on a gleaming countertop, is an object that renders Salvatore himself nothing more than a liability—a cell phone. I approach the counter and grab it, stroking the smooth surface as I turn to face him.
“You always did like your devices,” I say with my own chuckle. I swipe at the screen, unsurprised to find it locked by a passcode. “Laptops. Journals. With your shit for brains, you always had to write shit down to remember it later. Giovanni used to rip you a new one for that.” I toss the phone into the air and catch it one-handed. “I suspect this will tell me everything I need to know, won’t it?”
His expression alone is my answer—hell, yes. And if it’s nothing more than a dead-end?
