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Antonio stabbed into the idiot’s tongue, leading to another round of yelping and cursing.
“What am I supposed to call her? Princess?”
Antonio let his cast add pressure to Rossi’s balls, satisfied when the man sobbed out a breath. “You’re supposed to treat her with respect. Like you would me.”
“Fuck, fine! I already told you, I didn’t kill her.”
“Of course you didn’t. She’s too good for any attempt to be successful.” Saying it aloud settled Antonio. “An attempt still deserves repercussions.”
“It wasn’t me! I told the Coronellas that at their restaurant yesterday.”
Antonio focused on the man’s face. “And then that restaurant was shot up. While the head of the Di Salvos was inside.” He slid the knife out of Rossi’s mouth. “And the plates on the vehicle matched the one sitting in your goddamn garage.”
Rossi’s eyes widened as he snarled, “Fuck!”
Antonio raised an eyebrow. “Is that a confession?”
“No! I’m being set up by the Coronellas.”
Antonio’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“I loaned Lucchese a few of my cars and just got them back last night. Who but the Coronellas would have access to them after they took that family out?” Rossi blew out a breath as if he was now off the hook. “They’re consolidating power like crazy. Shouldn’t they be the ones the Di Salvos are keeping an eye on?”
“Did you miss me mentioning we were allies?” Antonio asked. Tired of delaying, he began to carve into Franco’s body, even more irritated by his continued blubbering. He couldn’t gag the pathetic bastard and kept having to use his hand against those bulbous, bleeding lips.
The story remained the same despite the increasing pain he afflicted. The Rossi leader hadn’t been the one to target the Coronellas.
“One more question,” Antonio said, sick of the man’s whimpers. “Does the name Cesare Moretti raise any memories?”
“No,” Rossi mumbled around his tears.
“Don’t lie.” Antonio dug the knife into the man’s palm, which was relatively unscathed. “I’m not lying! I don’t know a Cesare—” Rossi cut himself off with a frown, and Antonio pulled the knife free, dragging out another curse.
He shifted the knife to Franco’s face again. “You remembered something?”
“No!” Franco snapped, but when the knife shifted, he cried out, “Yes, yes, all right!”
Antonio waited.
“That name, Cesare, it’s familiar, but from a while ago. Too many damn sons being born.” He glared at Antonio, as if adding him among the many. “But that’s what Leandro’s heir went by before he disappeared.”
Antonio’s skin tingled. “Barone’s son was a junior.” He’d been checking into Leandro Barone Jr. ever since his initial meeting with the don.
Franco huffed out a breath. “Well, shit, every Mafia family reuses names, but that can get goddamn confusing.”
The Di Salvos had had their own issues with that.
Blood dripped down Franco’s face. “The little shit got killed or something, but I’m almost certain Cesare was his middle name.”
“How certain?” Antonio asked, putting the knife to work again.
By the time Franco was gurgling on his own blood, Antonio had a good picture of the entitled prick who had been born into the Mafia world only to spit on it. Not because he wanted out, but because he wanted a bigger name for himself.
Now Cesare Barone was barely remembered. He sounded just like the type of man who would try to tear down a woman who’d earned more respect than he had.
“You’ve been very helpful,” Antonio admitted as he wiped his blade on Franco Rossi’s sheets. “It’s not going to save your life, but I appreciate it all the same.”
Franco had lost the energy to fight. His breath wheezed in his chest as he mumbled, “Won’t…retaliate.”
