Page 12 of Lost Prince
Matteo laughs, shaking his head. "Fear's better than love any day. Love's fickle, but fear? Fear keeps people in line."
As much as I hate to admit it, I can see the logic in what he's saying. The fear in those workers' eyes, the way they scattered at our approach, is power. A power I'm not sure I want, but one that seems inextricably linked to who I am in this family.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“You won’t have to. Your reputation does half the work for you. Makes our job a hell of a lot easier."
Elio, who's been quiet during our exchange, turns to me with a grim smile. "Ready to put that reputation to work, Brother?"
So that’s why I’m here? Not to jog my memory but to scare the shit out of people.
I roll my shoulders and steel myself. This is my role, whether I like it or not.
We walk in and a lanky man with a grizzled face stands. "Mr. D'Amato," he stammers, eyes flicking between Elio and Matteo. Then he sees me and sucks in a breath. “Lazaro… you’re back.”
“We’re very happy to have him home, but this isn’t a reunion. Sit down, Tony," Elio says smoothly, taking a seat across from him. Matteo leans against the wall, arms crossed. I remain standing, unsure what to do with myself.
I watch as Elio leans forward, his voice low and dangerous. "We know what you've been up to, Tony. The numbers don't lie."
Tony's face pales, but he shakes his head vehemently. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. D'Amato. The numbers have been good. Growing."
Matteo snorts, pushing off the wall. "Cut the bullshit, Tony. We know math."
Tony's eyes dart to me, and I see a flicker of fear before he masks it.
"Look," Tony says, his voice trembling slightly. "I've been with this organization for fifteen years. I've always done right by you."
Elio's eyes narrow. "Then explain the discrepancies in our books."
Tony's composure cracks. His face flushes red, and he slams his hand on the desk. "You don't understand! I got in a jam, okay? I needed money. But I was going to pay it back, I swear!"
I flinch at his outburst, my hand instinctively moving to my waist where I assume I once carried a weapon. The movement doesn't go unnoticed by Tony, whose eyes widen in panic.
"Please," he begs, "I just need more time. I'll make it right, I promise." The desperation in his voice makes my stomach churn. I remember Diana's kindness, her warmth. What would she think of me if she could see me now, standing by while my family threatens a man over money?
Elio's face hardens, his patience clearly wearing thin. "How much we've done for you? You’ve got a nice house. Your wife wears nice clothes. Your kids’ college educations are paid. And this is how you repay us? By stealing?"
Tony's desperation is palpable, his eyes darting between us like a cornered animal. I feel a twinge of pity.
Tony's hand darts beneath his desk and a second later, it reappears with a gun that he points toward Elio. "You don't understand! I had no choice! But I was gonna pay it back! I just needed more time!"
The words are barely out of his mouth before my vision blurs, tinged with red. I'm dimly aware of charging over the desk and wrestling the gun from Tony's hand. After that, everything becomes a haze of violence and rage. I'm not me anymore. I'm someone brutal and merciless. I use the gun to pummel Tony. The sickening crunch of bone echoes in my ears. But I can't stop.
Tony's screams barely register. All I can hear is the pounding of blood in my ears, drowning out everything else. I don't know how long it lasts—seconds, minutes, hours—but suddenly, strong arms are pulling me back.
"Lazaro, stop! It's over!" Elio's voice cuts through the fog.
“You should let him finish it,” Matteo says even as he helps Elio pull me off Tony.
I blink, reality slowly coming back into focus. The red haze lifts from my vision, and I see Tony lying on the floor, a bloody, battered mess. My stomach lurches as I realize what I've done.
I look down at my hands, holding the gun now covered with Tony’s blood. Horror washes over me, leaving me cold and shaky.
“You’re okay,” Elio says, his hand on my shoulder giving me a shake. I’m not sure if he’s telling me or asking me.
I stumble back. "I… I… I don't know what happened."
But even as I say the words, I know they're not entirely true. Some part of me knew exactly what it was doing. This violence, this rage is a part of me. No matter how much I want to deny it, it's there, lurking just beneath the surface, ready to explode at a moment's notice. The realization makes me sick.