Page 3 of Petrichor
“Fuck. You!”
I give the knife another twist. “Where. Is. She? And think carefully before you give me the answer.” I tighten my grip on the knife.
“Frank Sisto!” he screams. One of the Enzinos’ soldiers. “He-he forced me, I had no choice.” Forced him my ass, he probably would have exchanged his own mother for his next fix.
“D-don’t know what he’s going to do with her. I swear.” Like that word means something from a traitor like him.
“You sold a twelve-year-old to a rival family. What do you think they’ll do to her? Take her to the movies?”
He starts shaking his head when I give the blade a half turn to the right. His grunt of pain doesn’t do shit for my anger. Plus, the knife is too small to do real damage.
“You think you’re so almighty, judging me,” he half sneers. Sweat drips down his face as the pit stains get darker on his tank top. “You had a snake in your bed all this time, and you didn’t even notice.”
Deafening silence descends on us for a moment. Then my threatening whisper breaks it. “What did you say?”
His mocking chuckle infuriates me. The knowledge of reaching the end must have given him a backbone. But I can still hurt him badly.
“The great Marco Moretti sharing all his secrets with a two-timing, traitorousbitch. You put your precious family in danger for awhore?—”
My fist rises and falls down on his fucking mouth, forcing blood to fly from his parted lips. I want to break his damn jaw and rip his tongue out. But I need him to talk. To find out what he knows about Delia and how he knows it.
“What do you—” I’m interrupted by the sound of light footsteps coming from the bedroom’s open door. A kid appears, stopping on the threshold. One of his trembling hands slowly rises to hold the cracked doorframe. The clothes on him are too big, a stained yellow t-shirt that reaches his knees, pants rolled multiple times at the hems, a pair of old, warped sneakers with holes in them. I can’t tell the color of his hair, the uneven locks falling messily around his small face are too dirty. He keeps blinking while looking down. A nasty cut mars the side of his forehead, but it looks like it stopped bleeding. He’s small and skinny, malnourished, and he has a bruise around his neck, an imprint of fingers. Did Joseph kidnap him too? And where was he? Carlo didn’t see him when he searched the room.
The kid pushes his nose in the air, nostrils flaring, before lowering his face and narrowing his eyes at me.
“Who-who are you?” he asks in a small, flat voice.
“Who gave you permission to talk, insect?” Joseph barks at him as the kid jerks back, almost expecting to be hit.
I grip my gold knuckles firmly and give the fucker’s throat a precise punch. It has the expected result to shut him up as he starts coughing. I grab his neck again, making it harder for him to recover from the hit.
“Sorry, father.”Father?Fuck! This could be a problem. I don’t kill children, but I don’t leave witnesses either.
“Just go, kid!” I use a rough tone. This is me being nice. I’m not used to kids, and I’m in an even fucking fouler mood after whatJoseph said about Delia. But the kid’s confused and frightened expression tugs at something inside me. I’d call it heartstrings, but that’s for people with a heart. Mine has slowly turned to stone after years doing this job.
I pull out my phone and call Luca.
“Everything okay?”
“I encountered a small problem.” If you can call an abused kid asmall problem.“The girl was given to Frank Sisto in exchange for drugs.”
“Fuck!” Luca growls menacingly, knowing we’ll need to go to the mattresses with the Enzino family once again. Don Massimo is not going to like that. “I’ll let Seb know. I’ll take care of it with him.”
“I’ll come too.” Protecting him comes first—if I’ll still be allowed to do it because of Delia.
My suspicions toward her started only a week ago, so how did Joseph know about it?
Luca hums in agreement. “I’m at Doc’s, be back in ten. Do your fucking worst with that shithead.”
“Will do. Police?” The sound of gunfire might have made someone call the cops.
“Detective Reynolds will be there in thirty. He’ll take care of it.” Reynolds is on our payroll. Thirty minutes is enough time to take care of Joseph and get out.
I end the call and land another punch, this time lower, right on the nuts. Joseph reflexively tries to move his right hand to cover his balls—the other is still impaled at his side—and whimpers even louder when it pulls against the blade. Fucking moron.
I hear a soft gasp. The kid is still standing near the bedroom door even though I told him to go. His small, tense body is slightly rocking while he keeps flickering his gaze around the room. Is he afraid I’ll kill him if he looks me in the eyes? The thought of how he’s been poorly treated increases my fury, and I tighten my fingers around Joseph’s throat, enjoying the choking noises coming out of his mouth.
Kids are too innocent. My hands are bloody, my soul too dark to be around such purity. Also, their whining rubs me the wrong way. Even though this one is barely making a sound.
