Page 80 of Venomous Throne

Donnie hovered at the entrance, jaw clenched so hard I could see cords throbbing in his neck. He offered no explanation, just a tight nod toward the back room usually reserved for private dances and illicit wagers. Vincenzo and Tom flanked me as we walked in—probably thinking I needed protection, when all it did was piss me off that they saw me as vulnerable.

The room’s gaudy velvet booths had been shoved aside to form a crude stage. At its center stood a chrome dancing pole, slicked with something darker than sweat or spilled whiskey. And bound to that pole—with wrists lashed above his head by duct tape and a bright yellow zip tie cinching deep into his throat—was what remained of a man. His feet dangled just inches from the sticky carpet, shoes missing but socks still on his splayed toes. The skin on his face was mottled, lips blue-black and cracked apart in a rictus that might once have been a scream or a grin. Blood had soaked down his shirtfront in slow, syrupy rivulets.

I paused at the threshold, suddenly aware of every eye on me—my men frozen mid-motion, waiting to see how I would respond to this overture from some unseen hand.

I will not faint.

A don wouldn’t shrink from the gruesome picture. They were used to blood and violence. I might be at a disadvantage, but I would be damned if I let my men see me waiver.

“What’s that in his hand?” I asked, my voice lower than usual but mercifully steady as I pointed at the paper clutched in his right fist. My stomach lurched at the thought of prying it out myself, but Vincenzo was already moving up onto the stage with that whiplash grace he had, not so much walking as appearing all at once beside the corpse.

I blinked, forcing back the haze that clouded my vision. Discreetly, I sucked in deep lungfuls of precious air.

I will not faint!

The lad plucked free the sheaf—actually three sheets stapled crookedly together—and studied them before turning back to me.

“It’s addressed to you, donna,” he reported, even as Donnie craned over his shoulder for a closer look. The rest of my crew pressed forward but kept their distance; old superstitions about death and public spectacle ran deep in people raised by survivors and predators both.

I snapped my fingers to keep my composure sharp. Act first, feel later.

Vincenzo descended from the stage and held out the grim letter. I took it from him. The paper was stiff with dried gore at one corner; my thumb left a faint print as I peeled back page one.

Scrawled in blocky penmanship:

I’m sorry I tried to kill you, Donna Isabella.

I was hired to take you out.

And I cried like a little baby before I was ended.

I hope you can forgive me.

There was no signature. No hint of who hired him or who delivered this final apology on his behalf. Only an oily fingerprint smeared just under my name.

A chill bit down through my shirt collar as I read those words again: hired to take me out.

I was being hunted.

My voice came out brittle with forced casualness. “Do we know who this man was?”

My capo shook his head once. “Face is messed up, donna. But there’s ink.” He gestured vaguely at the dead man’s neck, where something black coiled beneath brutal ligature marks.

Vincenzo squinted at it before leaning close again—far closer than necessary, almost like he didn’t care how near death he got.

“It’s a cobra tattoo,” he announced after a beat. “On his throat. The head fans out over his Adam’s apple. All black work, except the eyes, which are bright blue.”

The club stayed silent except for someone quietly retching behind us—one of the soldiers.

At least it wasn’t me.

“Cut him down,” I instructed flatly after a moment, arms prickling with gooseflesh beneath my blouse despite myself. “And clean this shit up. I want the club open for business by one.”

Donnie balked, but Tom produced an ancient box cutter from his pocket and made quick work of the bindings while Vincenzo steadied the body’s weight. When they laid him gently on the ground—like pallbearers honoring even their enemies—Vincenzo barely blinked or flinched. Even when flecks of blood spattered onto his cheek as Tom lowered their prize to rest among discarded drink napkins and neon flyers announcing amateur night specials.

This kid knew an awful lot about death. I made a mental note to ask him about his history sometime.

“There’s something eerie about this whole fucking mess, Donna Isabella,” the lad said casually. As though he were commenting on a handbag in the store or a piece of dessert atthe restaurant. “An assassin dead in your place of business. No employees at work. Someone had to do it.”