Page 111 of Broken Mafia Bride
I scoff. “The only reason I haven’t blown out your kneecaps is because you’re a fucking kid, so if I were you, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to say you’re an adult.”
Fear flashes in his eyes, replacing the indignant expression on his face. He swipes his tongue over his lower lip nervously. “Look, you have the wrong guy. I don’t know what you think I did, but I didn’t fucking do it, okay?”
“Who are you working for?”
“Livvie,” he says. “She owns the restaurant where I work.”
A dark smile curves my mouth, and he recoils when I rise to my full height and wiggle my shoulders to loosen the muscles there. “One more chance, kid. Who the fuck sent you to kill Isabella?”
His eyes flare. “I didn’t kill anyone! I swear to God. This is all a big misunderstanding and—” He continues to babble about being innocent, but he’s not fooling anyone.
The terror and guilt and regret in his eyes are dead giveaways. One thing is certain, though: Neither of us is walking out of here until I get some useful information. Isabella didn’t deserve to be gunned down like a criminal. For the rest of my life, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to erase the sight of Giulia shattering into pieces while covered in Isa’s blood.
Her shrill screams still haunt me.
The only way to put an end to all of this is to get to the bottom of it. In essence, find the root and take it out. This kid is our first real link, and I’m going to crack his brain open and get the truth out if I have to.
I pull out my gun and drop it on the metal table at the side with a loud clang. His words trail off as he spots the gun.
“Do you have the tools?” I ask without turning around to look at Pepe.
“They’re right there in that box,” he informs me casually.
Undoing the latch on the box, I push it open, revealing an array of tools. A shiver of anticipation rolls through me as I access the various tools. There’s everything from pliers to nipple clamps that receive an electrical charge.
When I turn back to the guy with a butcher knife in hand, his eyes go saucer-wide, and his face drains of color.
“Look, there’s a mistake,” he says again. “Oh god.”
“No god is going to save you from what will happen to you here,” I promise him. “You can either start telling me what I want to hear, or get ready for the most excruciating day of your life. I’m in no hurry, kid, and it’s been a while since I had the opportunity to enjoy getting a stubborn bastard to talk.”
Pepe chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against one side of the wall with its peeling paint. “Oh, this should be fun.”
The guy gulps. “The bullet wasn’t for her!” he finally blurts out. “I was supposed to kill you, not her. I fucked up the mission and had to go underground to escape the consequences of that massive fuck-up.”
My eyebrows climb up to my forehead, and from the corner of my eye, I can see Pepe pulling away from the wall.
“What do you mean by you fucked up the mission?” he asks.
He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “I was running out of time, and I had a short time window before the guards did another rotation.” His eyes meet mine, dark and furious. “And then you moved. Fucked up everything!”
There’s no remorse in his eyes, just fury at me for causing him to miss his shot. I suddenly see past the mask he’s been wearing this whole time. As much as the guy tied up might be young, there is something hard about him.
“Who sent you?” I ask him. “Who wants me dead?”
More importantly, why would someone want me dead? I rack my brain, trying to figure out if I’ve made any enemies in Sardegna—someone with enough balls to shoot me in a house under Re Ombra’s protection.
“I’ve told you all I know!” he barks. “There’s nothing else. I don’t know who sent me.”
“Don’t you?” I drawl, spinning the butcher knife around so it catches the light.
“I don’t, I swear!” He glances past me to Pepe. “I don’t know anything else, man, can you tell the crazy one to step back?”
My mouth spreads into a smile, and I grab his hand, banging it down against the metal table. “Who sent you?”
He begins to shake, gaze flying from the knife gleaming in my hand to his own hand spread out against the table like anoffering. “I’ve told you all I know. I got the request from the internet. The money was deposited in my bank on the day of the assassination, and that was that.”
“Do you know what my favorite body part to cut is?” I ask him.
