Page 5 of Claimed Through Deception

"I said we do it here."

Enzo doesn't argue. He nods once, stepping to the side to block the front entrance, crossing his arms over his chest. Alessio just grins, falling into step right behind my right shoulder, eager for the blood.

I walk the rest of the way across the room. The silence is deafening. The only sound is the heavy thud of my shoes against the floorboards.

Pietro doesn't make it out of the booth. His legs give out before he can even stand. He slumps back against the vinyl seat, his breathing fast and shallow. Sweat is pouring down his forehead, soaking his collar.

"Don Niccolò," Pietro gasps as I stop at the edge of his table. He uses my father's title. It’s a desperate, pathetic attempt at respect. "I... I have the money. I swear to God. I just need two more days. I didn't steal it, the Irish skimmed the top—"

"Shut up," I say.

The two words are quiet, but Pietro’s mouth snaps shut.

I don't look at him. I look past him.

The defiant waitress is standing less than ten feet away. Her hands are perfectly still. She is watching me.

"Stand up," I command the rat in the booth.

"Please," Pietro begs, his voice cracking. Tears well up in his eyes, spilling over his cheeks. He presses his hands together in a prayer. "Please, Niccolò. I have a daughter. I have—"

I don't give him the chance to finish.

I reach across the table. My hand wraps around his throat.

His skin is clammy and wet. I grip his windpipe, cutting off his oxygen instantly, and haul him up. He weighs a hundred and eighty pounds, but the adrenaline and cold rage make him feel weightless. I drag him entirely over the wooden table.

Bottles shatter. Glasses crash to the floor. The sound of breaking glass echoes like gunshots in the dead quiet of the bar.

Pietro thrashes, his hands clawing uselessly at my wrist, his boots kicking at the air.

I throw him onto the sticky floor in the center of the aisle. He hits the wood with a sickening thud, gasping frantically for air.

Alessio steps forward, his heavy boot coming down hard on Pietro’s chest, pinning the rat to the ground.

"You stole from my family," I say. I unbutton the center button of my suit jacket, crouching down so I am hovering right over his face. "You lied to my Consigliere. You thought you could take three hundred thousand dollars and drink it away in a dive bar on the South Side."

"I... I..." Pietro chokes, spitting blood onto the floorboards from where his lip split against the wood.

I pull a switchblade from my inside pocket. The metal clicks open, a sharp, deadly sound that cuts through the silence.

"Alessio," I say softly, keeping my eyes on Pietro’s terrified face. "Give me his right hand."

Alessio smiles. He leans down, grabbing Pietro’s right wrist, and yanks his arm out flat against the floor. Pietro screams. It is a high, piercing sound of pure terror.

I raise the blade. I am going to pin his hand to the floor, make him bleed out the money he stole, and then let Alessio finish the job in the alley.

It is business. It is the only language this city understands.

3

Livia

The man's scream splits the air.

It’s a high, sharp, pathetic noise. The kind of sound an animal makes when its leg is caught in a steel trap.

I am standing by the adjacent booth, the damp rag hanging limply from my fingers. I don't know the man on the floor. I’ve served him a few cheap beers over the last month, but to me, he is just a nameless face in a sea of regulars.