Page 27 of Deal with the Devil
Dario does his best to remain unfazed. He can’t let his men see any cracks. Any sign of weakness would be a reflection of his leadership.
But I know better.
He puffs on his cigarette, remaining in stanch silence as my men and I turn to go. We follow the dusty path we’ve walked down that leads toward the abandoned parking lot. The crew I’ve brought with me disperses to their designated cars. Maurizioand Adagio follow me to mine, Gavino sitting up front behind the wheel.
The second we’re inside and the door snaps shut, I give my next set of orders.
“Newport University,” I say. “We have a new guest to pick up.”
“He’s still out cold. We’ve got him bound and gagged in the cell,” says Adagio later in the night. “He’ll probably be awake in a few hours. You sure this is the direction you want to go in?”
“The Tucos have Portia. Cortese all but confirmed it tonight.”
Adagio trails in my wake as we walk through the long hallway of my penthouse, moving from one end to the other. It’s late at night and the city sleeps despite the twinkling lights scattered across the otherwise dark landscape.
Since the meeting at the racetrack, I’ve made several more moves. Most of which will not be known until daylight tomorrow.
But more importantly they will show I’m not fucking around. If the Tucos have Portia, then I’ve taken something of theirs, and I will hurt that prized possession until mine is returned. Once upon a time, family was off limits.
That’s no longer the case.
“He’s just a college kid. What is he, like, twenty? Twenty-one?” Adagio says. “He hasn’t even been made yet.”
I stop midway down the hall and round on him, devil mask still obscuring my face. “If I wanted your opinion, I would’veasked. Your view on the matter is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter if he is still a kid or if he’s a fucking made man—he’s Titus Tuco’s son and I’ll slit his throat if they don’t give back Portia.”
Adagio holds up both hands to illustrate he means no harm. “Yes, boss. Just pointing out that, you know… technically, we still don’t know if the Tucosdohave Portia.”
“If they didn’t, Cortese would’ve said so. He left us in the dark on purpose. The fact he was willing to play with fire says enough,” I answer coldly. I start back down the hall without checking to see if Adagio follows. It doesn’t matter if he does. My mind is made up either way, and there’s no going back. “I’m not entertaining his games. Now it will cost his boss his son.”
8
RAFAEL
Titus Tuco’sson is a freshman studying finance at Newport University. He had a 2.4 GPA in high school yet quickly got accepted once his mobster father donated a new library to the school. The kid’s not particularly bright or gifted, but he’s been living life on easy street up until now.
Joseph has never known adversity until he’s chained up in my cell and forced to look into the masked face of the devil.
The funny thing is, my existence has been the opposite.
I knew nothing but struggle from the moment I was brought into this world. I wasn’t born into a life of privilege like Joseph, son to a rich and powerful crime boss father. My father was some slovenly loser who couldn’t even stick around for me and my mother. He left us to struggle in abject poverty until my mother passed away and I resorted to petty crime.
So when I peer into the flushed, blubbering face of a kid like Joseph, I feel nothing.
No sympathy. No compassion. Not an ounce of understanding.
I look at him and am reminded how he’s had a silver spoon in his mouth his whole life while I had to work for everything I’ve ever had, and yet we’ve somehow wound up in the same circles. As if that weren’t proof enough how unfair life is.
But for once Joseph is going to find out for himself. He’s going to learn that while his life comes with privileges, being the son of a mafia don has a hell of a lot of downsides too.
“Il Diavolo,” he croaks. “If this is about my father?—”
“You speak when you’re spoken to. I have no interest in listening to your pleading or any sob stories. I don’t want to hear about how you’re not involved in your father’s business,” I explain matter-of-factly, pacing in front of him. The cell is dark and silent, every footstep echoing. “Consider this payment for the sins of your father. Your side has taken something valuable from me, so I have reacted in kind. If you wish to go free, you’ll have to depend on him.”
He makes a throaty sound of protest, though he otherwise stays silent.
“We’re going to record a video,” I say. “You’re going to cooperate and read the script in front of you. And if Daddy listens, then maybe you’ll go free with all your parts intact.”
That seems to drain the last of what color remains in Joseph’s complexion. He goes pale as my men set up the camera equipment and hold up a ring light over his head. The cue cards are laid out in front of him to read from.
