by LP Lovell
I glance back at the ugly house sitting just above us on the hill. “I’m good. Where’s Nero?”
“He’s unexpectedly pre-occupied.”
“Okay, either you take me to him or I’m leaving. And you can tell him that I don’t wait around for anyone.”
He turns and starts walking towards the house with a low chuckle. “This is going to be good.”
Falling in beside him, we walk in silence. The smell of night lilies assaults me as we pass through the gardens. Roses adorn the flowerbeds, their crimson petals bleeding against the night. The dogs break away, running ahead of us into the sunroom at the back of the house. I pull my hood up as we enter. It makes me uneasy being around all these people, being seen. Gio leads me along a corridor until we come to a door that opens onto a set of concrete stairs. A burst of cool air drift up them as we descend into the basement, like icy fingers, reaching for us. At the bottom, he approaches an old, rusted metal door, then presses a code into a keypad, eliciting a loud click. With a rough shove he pushes the old door open, its hinges screaming in protest.
“Here you go.” He stands back, gesturing me to move ahead of him. I don’t like it, but I steel my spine and step inside, keeping my focus on him. Gio is the worst kind of dangerous. The first impression is that he’s nice, intelligent, smiles easily and has an air of kindness to him. Everything about him makes you forget that he would put a bullet in your head quick as look at you if the situation called for it. I don’t forget though. He didn’t make it to Nero’s second by being soft.
As I step through the door, a gruesome scene unfolds before me. The room is nothing more than a large, empty space with concrete walls and floor. A drain is set into the middle of the floor, which gently slopes in towards it. The entire room smells of blood and death, and the floor is stained with evidence of the acts committed within these walls. It reminds me of the facility I grew up in, concrete and blood. Directly above the drain is a body, suspended by the ankles via thick metal chains that hang from a hook in the ceiling. The man is barely more than pulverised flesh, his face completely unrecognisable. The big guy that was in Nero’s office earlier stands in front of him, his shirtsleeves rolled up and a set of brass knuckles clutched in his hand. Blood coats his fingers, spreading up his forearms and catching the edge of his shirtsleeves. Nero and the other guy that were in the office are off to the side. Nero leans against the wall, a cigarette hanging between his lips. He almost seems casual, but I know better.
“This is Tommy.” Gio points to the guy straddling a chair right next to Nero and he lifts a hand, waving at me as he grins. He’s the only one here who doesn’t have the dark hair and olive skin. His green eyes, pale skin and chestnut hair give him away as something other than Italian. “And Jackson.” He waves a hand dismissively towards the big guy. This is Nero’s inner circle, I realise. Every capo, boss or leader has one. You have to. I have people I use for certain things. No one can stand completely alone. It’s impossible.
Sighing, I move over to the wall where Nero’s standing, prepared to watch them flex their muscles and treat the guy on the chain like a piñata. Nero’s arm is a couple of feet away from mine where I brace against the cold concrete, but I’m abnormally aware of him. He stands in his silent vigil, king of all he surveys, and it’s everything that he doesn’t say or do that makes him so formidable. Nicholai always said that a man’s weight is all in how he is perceived, and perception can always be altered. A man who makes threats, a man who is seen to commit violence is doing so because he feels he has to make a point. Nero wants me to take out his enemies. He’s not making a point, far from it, he’s deliberately trying to remove himself from it. He doesn’t need to make threats or kill people, because he knows what he is and he’s confident in his abilities. I can feel his eyes on my face but I ignore it, crossing my arms over my chest as I school my features into a bored expression. Truthfully, once you’ve seen one interrogation, you’ve seen them all.
Gio approaches the suspended man, circling him with his hands buried deep in his pockets. “Is he dead?”
Jackson cracks his neck to the side impatiently. He’s the muscle, the most reckless of the three, the most easily riled or baited, I note. “It can be arranged.”
“If we wanted him dead, I’d have used a bullet and saved your shirt,” Gio lilts, his voice like velvet as he says the words quietly. “Wake him up.”
Jackson picks up a bucket from beside him and throws water over the unconscious man. He gasps and jerks awake, thrashing against the chain like a fish on a line. Out of the corner of my eye I see Nero drop the cigarette and crush it under his shoe, driving a black mark into the concrete floor. He steps forward, the atmosphere in the room changing, as though the beating so far was just a warm-up and it’s all about to kick off.
Tommy chuckles under his breath and twists his head towards me. “Hope you’re not squeamish.”
I say nothing. The only reason I’m even standing here is because I have to wait for Nero to give me his royal decree. I don’t like to be kept waiting, and especially not when I’m waiting to go to his apartment…something I don’t even want to do. So, I stand on the side lines, watching the boys’ club strut around, weighing each other’s balls. Although, I will say I’m curious. I want to see what Nero does that has them all waiting on baited breath, or perhaps even they don’t know.
Nero stands in front of the man. His silence might as well be a gunshot in the room. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he removes a pack of cigarettes, taking one to replace the one he just stubbed out. His movements are slow, methodical, deliberately unhurried as he puts the packet back in his pocket and takes out the lighter. The low click gives way to the bright orange flame dancing over the end of the cigarette until it glows a bright red. I notice every tiny, inconsequential detail, because he demands it, without ever speaking a word. He has a gift, and when he finally does speak, everyone listens.
“You should know, Mr Chang, that I always get what I want.” He straightens the collar of his jacket, brushing away a non-existent piece of lint.
“Not this time!” the hanging guy rasps, though it’s lost on a choked cough.
Nero smiles; it’s almost charming and certainly disarming. “You aren’t walking out of here alive,” he tells the man. Well, he’s not going to tell him shit now. Don’t get me wrong, he knows he’s going to die, I’m sure, but hope will play tricks on the human mind. It’s that fragile hope that has them spilling their guts, not a guaranteed death penalty.
“Fuck you!” The guy spits through swollen lips and broken teeth. He sways slightly as his weight shifts, and the chain lets out an ominous creak as the links grind together.
Nero sighs and then inhales on his cigarette. For the first time, I notice the way his full lips purse around it, his defined jawline flexing beneath a layer of dark stubble as he draws the breath. He turns away, giving a slight jerk of his chin to Gio, who immediately leaves the room. “One of my guys was killed in your ambush,” he says, his tone completely neutral. “I think you sold me out.” This time, the guy says nothing, and the only sound is the rasping of his breath. Sounds like a punctured lung to me. Nero shrugs. “Okay.”
I’ll admit I’m intrigued when Gio comes back in the room carrying a metal bucket. He places it at Nero’s feet, where he leans down and takes out a bottle. Nero nods and steps back as Gio opens the bottle and pours it over the suspended man. It only takes a second for the smell to hit me. Gasoline. The liquid soaks the material of his jeans, cascading down his mangled body until he’s coughing and choking, trying not to inhale it.
“What are you doing?” he asks, panicked.
Nero drops to a crouch, until he’s almost eye level with him. “Getting what I want.” He takes one final drag of the cigarette and throws it, straight at the guy’s face. The ember catches and the flames tear over his body. His screams echo around the concrete room, accompanied only by the sound of the fire tearing over his skin. I’m no stranger to violen
ce, but that’s a nasty way to go. Gio moves and pulls something else from the bucket, but I can’t clearly see past Nero who stands calmly, watching the burning, screaming man as if he were observing a bonfire. A hissing sound fills the room, and the flames die instantly. Gio stands to the other side of the smoking body, fire extinguisher in hand. They put him out? They set him on fire and then they put it out. Why? All I can smell is singed hair and burnt flesh, and the odour has me swallowing back bile.
Another bucket of water is thrown on him and again he jerks awake, only this time it must feel like he’s imprisoned in the inner circle of hell. The scream that tears from his lips would have even the hardest of men recoiling. His skin is raw and mangled, literally as though it melted in the fire. He’s completely unrecognisable, not that the round with the brass knuckles had done him many favours. Nero stares down at him.
“Painful, isn’t it?” The man’s unbroken moans continue. “Your lungs are incinerated from the inside, which means you’re going to die. You have hours, maybe days, depending on how strong you are.” He pauses, and still all the guy can do is moan.
Damn, I’d feel sorry for him if I could, but honestly, I’m simply enamored by Nero right now.
“Give me a name and I’ll give you a bullet. If not, I hope you enjoy your last few hours on this earth.”
“Abbiati,” he sobs, the word barely comprehensible.
“Thank you.” Nero removes his gun and shoots the guy in the head. The body goes limp and blood gushes into the drain. It reminds me of an animal carcass hanging in a slaughterhouse.
“Gio, Jackson, I think Bruce Abbiati needs a little visit.” Nero says darkly. “Be sure to send a message.” He tucks his gun back into the holster at his chest and approaches me. “Apologies for the delay.” Then he walks out of the room without a backwards glance.
Nero Verdi, for all of his refinement, is a monster; one with no boundaries. To watch a man burn, to hear his screams and not even flinch…well, that puts him on my level. As if he wasn’t dangerous enough to me. He’s every bit as unfeeling and ruthless as I am. But he’s also smart and cunning, and intelligence is the most lethal weapon a man can possess.
8
Nero
The second we’re in the car I can feel her unease. She sits in the passenger with her back ramrod straight and her fingers lingering over the knife holstered at her thigh.
“Why?” she asks.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Why are you insisting that I stay with you?”
I stare through the windshield at the headlights cutting through the darkness. “I have my reasons.”
“Well, sharing is caring.”
My lips twitch as I look at her again and find her intense gaze on me. “I know enough about you to know that you’re very capable with some extremely powerful contacts. Right now, we’ve entered into something that mutually benefits us. I get what I want, and you get what you want.”
“Yes, and I agreed to the exchange of services, did I not?”
“Come now, Una, don’t tell me that you wouldn’t look for a way out of it the second you got a chance.” She says nothing. “You might pay Arnaldo a visit, or try and find your sister yourself, not that you’d get far, but still.”
I pull to a stop at a red light. “I fail to see your point.”
Reaching out, I trail a finger down the sharp plane of her cheek, knowing full well that it makes her uncomfortable. I’ve never had women complain about my touch, never met a woman that didn’t beg me for it. They all want a taste of a bad boy, a walk on the wild side. If only they knew exactly what they were climbing into bed with. Una’s different. She’s no normal woman, and she definitely doesn’t see me as the fuckable bad boy. She sees me for exactly what I am and doesn’t even blink. Her skin is like satin beneath my fingertip as I trace a line to the corner of her lip, before gripping her jaw. “You stay with me, then you can’t run around plotting my demise in your spare time.”
A slow smile pulls at her lips, even as her eyes flash with something dangerous. “You really think you can hope to hold me against my will?”
I smirk back at her. “Oh, it won’t be against your will. Because the second you get away from me, I will give Nicholai the information I have on Anna.” Her breath hitches ever so slightly, her pulse throbbing erratically beneath my fingers. I allow a full-blown grin to make its way across my features. “And for all of your bravado, I don’t think you want that, do you, Morte?” I have her, hook, line and sinker. She’s got nowhere to run but straight to me. I will become her saviour and her nightmare. I’ll be whatever the fuck she needs me to be if she plays the role I need her for.
Her facial expression relaxes back into one of passive indifference and outright attitude. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
She pulls her face away from my grasp. “I asked for the why. You gave it. I can appreciate a shrewd manipulator, Verdi.”
Oh, we’re on a surname basis now. I snort as the light turns green and I pull away.
“Of course, if you want me to do my job, then I’ll need my gear. Not to mention clothes. We need to make a stop.”
“Fine. Where do you need to go?”
The headlights glide across the metal roller doors of several storage units. Zeus and George sit bolt upright on the back seat, ears pricked as they stare out the windshield. I cut the engine and get out. We’re in a particularly run-down part of Brooklyn. A chain-link fence surrounds the lot with two security lights on either side of the gate casting an orange glow across the concrete walkway that separates the two rows of units. Una slams the car door and starts walking, her figure casting a long shadow. There’s a single security guard on the gate. This place is about as secure as a garden shed in the Bronx. What the hell is Una possibly using this place for? I scour the shadows, listening. All I can hear is the distant hum of traffic, interrupted by the occasional boat horn. I follow her, feeling the hard outline of my gun against my ribcage. My fingers itch to feel the weight of it in my hand, but I refrain. Call me paranoid but I’ve experienced one too many dodgy deals and subsequent shootouts in locations just like this.
The sound of one of the metal doors rolling up punches through the night air. I catch up to Una as she steps inside the open unit and flicks on a light. The back wall is lined with several metal lockers, not dissimilar to the kind you’d find in an auto shop. She takes a set of keys and unlocks one. Opening drawers, she starts removing various weapons, pulling out the clips on the pistols and checking them before sliding them back in.
“Hand me one of those bags, will you?” She points to the left-hand wall, where a couple of empty black holdalls are hanging. I had one to her and she puts god knows how many different guns in there, and then she moves on to the next drawer. Grenades. The next, knives.
“You done?”
She glances sideways at me before zipping the bag. “You know I have guns. And we’re not taking down the pentagon.”
She glares at me. “I like my guns.”
“And the grenades?”
A small smile touches her lips. “Well, grenades are always handy.” I shake my head as I toss the bag over my shoulder. She picks up a long steel briefcase from the corner, followed by one of the zipped duffels against the wall.
“I need that, too.” She points at a black plastic case, which I pick up. “Okay, let’s go.” She rolls the metal door back down, snapping the padlock back in place.
“You know, you should probably find somewhere more secure to store your shit.”
She walks past me. “Well, no one would store anything of value here, so no one bothers to break in.” She shrugs one shoulder. She says that now.
I pull into the parking garage beneath my building and glance at Una. She hasn’t spoken a word to me since we picked up her supplies, and honestly, I’m good with that. I really don’t care much for her emotional wellbeing past her ability to kill. I get out of the car and open the back door, lettin
g the dogs out. They walk to heel as I make my way to the elevator, sparing only a brief glance over my shoulder just to check she is, in fact, following.
Her footsteps behind me are so quiet it’s almost unnerving. She takes ‘silent as the grave’ into an entirely new context.
The elevator doors open and I step in. She looks like a cornered animal when she slides in beside me, ready to bolt at any minute. She lingers slightly behind me, ever the strategist. I catch her blurred reflection in the brass doors, and even with that limited view I can see the tension in her shoulders. She’s uncomfortable and fight ready.
I inspect the cuff of my jacket, adjusting the edge of my shirt. “I’m not about to jump you, Una.”
“You’d be stupid to,” she replies, her voice tight.
Well, isn’t this going to be fun? Gio thinks I’m crazy bringing her here. He wanted me to leave her at the house, but I know there’s no way she’d stay there. Well…she might, but not without slaughtering every man there who sees her face before we part ways. The tension in this small metal box becomes stifling, until I’m ready to either pry the damn doors open or point a gun at her head and tell her to stop with her shit. Luckily for both of us, the low ping rings out before the doors glide open. The dogs trot ahead, disappearing into the kitchen where Margo, my housekeeper will have left them food.
“The elevator only operates with a key, and the emergency exit has sensors and alarm systems on the door. So, if you run, I’ll know.” I look at her, making sure she sees how deadly serious I am. Honestly, I have no idea how to handle someone like her. I deal with men for whom threats and leverage will undoubtedly work. She’s too calm, too accepting. It makes me suspicious. I’ve never had to supress someone of her skill, nor with her contacts. I’m pretty sure she could call in a favour from any big gun she likes, even Arnaldo. After all, I’m off the grid here, working on my own, and I have no doubt that she knows that. I’m just hoping that her sister is enough. True, she might be able to find Anna on her own, but I’ve had guys buried in the cartels for years. I’m her best bet. She steps away from me, moving to the floor-to-ceiling windows that surround the entire apartment, like a literal glass wall, imprisoning her here, high above New York.