Page 48 of The Don's Secret Heir

He swallows visibly. “Yes,don.”

He sounds slightly sullen and I raise an eyebrow.

“So tell me, Armando. What’s the punishment for breaking a rule?”

“You take a piece of me,” he says flatly, his eyes widening even further in fear.

I pull out a pocketknife from my back pocket, one not unlike the one I’d teased Liana with.

“That’s right. Put your hand on the table.”

“Boss, you don’t have to...”

“I know you’re not telling me what I have to do,” I seethe, walking over and taking hold of his wrist, jerking his arm to lie his palm flat on the table.

I jerk my head at one of his friends, a tall dark-haired man I’d hired a few times. He’s big enough for the job.

“Hold him down.”

“Jerry, don’t you fucking touch me!” Armando yells, writhing, clearly not as willing to take his punishment as he’d imagined.

“Sorry,” Jerry mutters, and takes my place holding Armando down. He does a good job, keeping his hand still as I rest the curved blade at the juncture of his hand and pinky finger.

“Because you’re loyal, I’ll do it fast. But if I hear about you stealing my drugs again, I’ll take the whole hand. Got it?”

Armando trembles, letting out a string of Italian curses. He writhes again, trying to get away from Jerry but he can’t. Finally, he goes limp, nodding and breathing in hard, rough gasps.

I chop off the finger as quickly as I can, the sharp blade slicing easily through skin and bone. Armando screams as blood splatters all over my hand and wrist, some getting onto the sleeve of my shirt.

Sirens start to sound outside. Everyone runs but me, Armando, and Jerry.

Jerry lowers a still-yelling Armando to the ground, rushing to grab paper towels to staunch the bleeding.

The cops come stomping up the stairs and I just place my pocketknife back into the back of my pants and raise my hands.

“Conte? What the hell is going on here?”

Richard Spears, better known as Dick to my father who went to college with him, is the lead detective in the area. He’s been in my father’s pocket for thirty years, and now, mine.

“Just a little disagreement,” I say easily, keeping my hands raised.

“Get back to your vehicle,” he tells the other two officers who have their guns drawn.

“Wh-what? But boss?—”

“Back to your fucking vehicle!” he barks, and they scurry like cockroaches.

Fucking pigs. I hate cops, and Dick is no exception. Just because he was friends with my father doesn’t make him a friend of mine.

“I’ll settle up with you later,” I promise. “Get Armando here to the hospital.”

“And what am I supposed to say happened?”

“I did it to myself,” Armando says in a small voice.

I nod, smiling. “That’s right. They may be able to reattach it, Armando.”

I crouch down and ruffle his hair.