Luca had been told from a young age he had to be as sharp as a knife and as cold as winter. As he stood across from the city’s largest Italian mafia organization, it finally dawned on him why.
One wrong look and he was dead.
Well, that would have been the case if the tables were turned.
“Tell me where you hid it.” Luca glared at the man on the ground before him. His face, battered and bruised, made it impossible to pinpoint who the guy was. The purple and red colors encroached on his right eye, reaching up like a disease. The bitter breeze coming off the lake hit Luca’s skin and brushed black strands of hair from his forehead.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about—”
Without a second to spare, Luca swung his foot out and slammed it into the guy’s face. He heard a loud cracking as the man’s neck twisted. He planted his boot on the gangster’s cheek and knelt down, eyes narrowing.
“Veleno. Do I need to fucking spell it out for you, too?”
“I know, Gio.” His right-hand man, as stoic as ever, always had to remind him when he took things too far. If people did their damn jobs, he wouldn’t have to. “For the so-called famous Italian mob, you don’t know shit.”
Although he couldn’t make out the man’s features anymore, his face crushed to a bloody pulp, the smirk showing his white teeth stood out in the darkness. The person before him either had no fear, or was too dumb to realize who he was messing with. No one crossed the young heir to the Maniaco and lived to tell the tale.
Luca smiled. “Let’s see if we can make you talk.”
With nothing more to say, Luca removed his foot and shoved his fingers into his eyes. A throaty scream echoed throughout the empty docks.