Page 31 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
A second passes where I admire how bloodied and pitiful he looks on his knees. I point at his twin brother, another guy on my crew named Matteo.
“What do you think about this?” I ask. “Do you think I should go easy on your brother for what he’s done?”
Matteo takes a look at his groveling brother, then gives a shrug. “We all know the rules. We know what happens when we break them.”
“No, Matty!” Enrico blurts out. Another one of my guys kick him in the face to shut him up.
Most people would be disturbed their boss is considering the punishment of their brother. Their twin brother no less. Matteo Bandini is cut from a different cloth. Born and raised to be part of this ruthless lifestyle since he was a boy, much like myself. He sees it as work. Even if it’s Enrico.
I grin. “Hold him down.”
Two of my men obey my request at once. They pin Enrico to the floor using their hands and knees.
He erupts in screams and struggles against their hold.
I accept the clear glass container handed to me by another one of my men. Crouching beside a twisting and turning Enrico, I peer down at him.
“I’m sure you knew you’d be punished. Let’s see if you can survive this. We’ll be taking bets.”
Enrico attempts to clamp his mouth shut. The same soldier who handed me the container kneels on the opposite side and pries his jaw open by force. I pour the clear liquid clean down his gullet ’til it’s empty, and I’m easing back to admire the damage.
The effects are immediate. Enrico’s eyes bulge in his sockets. His face pales to a sickly color. The muscles in his throat work so hard his Adam’s apple bounces up and down. The hacking sound he produces grows louder as he chokes on his tongue and fights against the liquid seeping down his throat.
But it’s too late.
We watch as the sulfuric acid wreaks havoc and burns through his upper gastric tract. It incinerates him before our very eyes in a gruesome sucking noise that emits from deep down his esophagus.
Enrico flops like a fish on dry land, his struggles weaker and weaker against the men holding him down. Soon, he goes still altogether. The life vanishes from his eyes and foam froths from his mouth, mixing with the dried crust of blood already on his lips.
I stand up and dust my hands off. “That was more entertaining than I thought it would be. It’s a shame he didn’t last longer. Take him away and carve him up like I instructed. Use the rest of him to feed the strays in the city. They could use a meal.”
Several of my men snicker and then do as I say.
Once they’re all gone, I notice someone I hadn’t before—Ms. Poitier hovers near the doorway with a scolding expression lined on her face.
I blow out an aggrieved breath. “What now?”
“I see you’ve found new and interesting ways to hurt people. Acid down his throat?”
“I could’ve skinned him alive, but I wanted to get creative this time.”
“You hurt the man that hurt her, and shestillwon’t want you.”
Any amusement dies from my face. My usual scowl replaces it. “It doesn’t matter if she wants me.”
“Yes, it does. You want her to want you. Have you forgotten I know you better than anyone?”
“She’s my wife whether or not she chooses to be.”
“But it ruins the dream. Your perfect vision of her.”
I turn my back and stride toward the collection of weapons stowed in this room. “I’m missing your point.”
“The girl’s been kidnapped, married off, injured by one of your men—she’s miserable. If you keep this up, there’s no telling how this’ll end.”
“Then what’s the solution, P? Give me your almighty wisdom.” Sarcasm seeps from every word, though deep down, my curiosity has been piqued.
Ms. Poitier’s right. Idoprefer that Nevaeh wants me in return.