Page 70 of Venomous Throne

“No, ma’am,” he snapped. “I haven’t.”

Sighing, I rose.

“I’m sorry for their loss, but there’s nothing I can do,” Fergus called after me.

But I wasn’t retreating.

“Vincenzo? Come.” I held the door wide enough for my enforcer to enter.

The thud of the door closing was ominous. It was time to see what the kid was made of. I flicked the lock. My eyes closed briefly.

Remember the cost of power.

“You seem to have trouble recollecting that you took in these five homes just the other month,” I began. “That you created policies for them after I paid a hefty deposit.”

“Mrs. Moretti, there are no policies,” Fergus said hotly.

I turned and resisted the urge to press my back against the door. They wouldn’t see me needing support. If a capo dei capi could follow through with a consequence for the refusal, I, too, could have my demands met.

Santa Caterina, give me strength.

“Vincenzo, our friend needs to recheck his records,” I insisted.

The lad crossed the room. He was a hound, latched on the scent. I could almost imagine his hackles raised, fangs bared.

“Check the records,” Vincenzo intoned.

“Now wait just a minute!” Fergus stumbled backward, a feeble attempt to hide behind his desk. As if the metal and glass structure could save him.

Vincenzo sprang.

Fergus yelped. The sound twisted my gut. I wanted to look away. The words to recall my soldier were on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them.

A soft snap filled the office.

Fergus howled.

Vincenzo held the insurance agent’s hand in an unforgiving grip. The middle finger was bent back at a ninety-degree angle.

“Check again, please,” I insisted. “Find the policies and begin the process of paying out the funds to the five homeowners.”

“There are no policies,” Fergus blubbered.

A second snap, and the pinky arched in an L to the left, halfway up the finger.

“I can’t; I can’t!” the agent wailed.

Mercy swelled inside me. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to remember the burnt remains of the city block.

“I’m just asking you to do your job,” I said coldly. “You insurance people are creative, right?”

The man gaped at me. An insurance agent was the least creative job on the planet. They were left-brain people. Logic, analysis, and sequential tasks were their forte.

“Be creative,” I urged.

Fergus panted hard. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

Vincenzo reached for the index finger, but Fergus shouted. “I remember! I know where they are, I just mixed up the addresses!”