Page 168 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
Umberto’s eyes widened just slightly at the sight before they flicked to me.
I nodded somberly. “You might know a few of the men I left blind and broken before I moved to America. Danny ‘Greaser’ Ricci, Alessandro Tedesco, Thumper Greco.” I paused, took the spoon and torch from Nico, and flicked on the gas, flame bursting out of the nozzle between my face and Umberto’s. “You’ll live, but I hope you took a good long look at your wife or mother before you left home tonight. It’s the last time you’ll ever see them.”
Behind me, the door creaked slightly.
“Vaffanculo a chi t’è morto,” he cursed at me to fuck my dead family members.
Rage sparked deep in the heart of me.
It was the worst insult in Italian, one that infuriated any local because family was sacred in this country.
But it made me see red.
Because my mother, Chiara, was dead. Murdered before her time by my psychopathic father because she’d dared to threaten to go to the authorities about murdering his long string of mistresses.
No one—no one—spoke about my mother like that.
Swiftly, I held the spoon to the flame just long enough to sear the pure silver but not warp it, and then I lunged forward, grabbing Umberto by the hair in one punishing hand. He kicked out, struggling in the chair, but I had him paralyzed in my hold. My right hand was steady as I brought the smoking metal to his left eye and dug the edge into his tear duct.
His cry pierced the room, vibrating the old, dusty chandelier Tore had never bothered to take down from the ceiling. The chiming sound was almost as pretty as this bastard’s cries.
“Bene!” he screamed as I dug deeper, catching the edge of his eyeball. “Fermata!”
Okay, stop, he begged.
So, I did, the spoon hovering an inch from his bleeding socket.
“Yes?” I coaxed.
His breath heaved through his lungs as if he’d run a marathon. I waited a moment for him to catch some air, then lowered the spoon again.
“Wait, fuck,” he called out again in Italian. “You crazy bastard.”
“This is nothing,” I said with a humble shrug, twirling the spoon between my fingers. “Now, tell me why you came for me.”
He glowered at me, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the pulpy mess my fists had made of his face. “You think you can just come back to Napoli and slide right back into your old role?”
“Ah, so you do remember.” My smile was smug, and I felt a resounding pang of triumph in my chest.
The truth was, validation was important to me. I’d grown up the second son of a powerful man, the spare to the prodigal heir. No one had their eyes on me, and it chafed more than I cared to admit. I was shaped by that need for glory, so much so that it was entirely too easy to settle for infamy in the place of fame.
I’d wanted to make a name for myself in the world and I’d done it.
There was no shame in being Dante Salvatore, ruthless mafioso, the Devil of NYC, the Mafia Lord, or the Crown Prince of Hell.
I’d forged him like a weapon from the ashes of my old life as Edward Davenport, parentless, with a brother who hated me and no home to return to.
So, it pleased me deeply to hear that my name still echoed through the alleys and underground backrooms of Naples.
“You think you’re entitled to whatever you want just because you’re some hotshot capo in America? You’re all soft and weak.Porci.”
Pigs.
“No…” The word slid from my mouth on a hiss. “We are crafty and relentless. Where you would have shot me dead in my bed, I have you here about to confess all your plans like a talking toy with a pulled string. Who, may I ask, is the weaker man here?”
He tried to spit at me, but there was only sticky blood in his mouth, so the effort failed.
I sighed wearily and tensed my fingers in his hair again, yanking his head back for a better angle for my spoon.
