But he was my brutal.
And I knew in that moment that I wouldn't change him for the world.
Fifty-One
Lino
The warehouse seemed more ominous than ever. I didn't spend a ton of time in it and had never been a critical part of the wet work. Considering that I ran the legitimate businesses, we tried to keep my hands as clean as possible. But there would always be circumstances that we couldn't control. Personal vendettas. Moments where I needed to be involved to make a show of force against the politicians and businessmen that filled my days with bullshit.
But going there knowing I'd commit patricide was a new one for me. I tried to drum up some sympathy or guilt over it, but the knowledge of what he'd done to Samara outweighed any guilt that might try to sneak in. I could tolerate a lifetime of abuse against me, but I wouldn't tolerate the fact that my wife had been hurt in his stunt.
That he'd tried to sell her.
I pulled open the door, heading for the freezer and opened that door as well. I didn't bother closing it behind me, because my father would never be so undignified to scream for help. He knew better than any just how futile it would be.
Ryker stood, leaning against the table where he kept his tools and fiddling with them like he couldn't wait to dig in. And I would let him. I wouldn't torture my father. He'd enjoy seeing me behave like a monster, even if it did mean he suffered.
Because it would mean that I was just like him in the end, that I was everything he'd molded me to be. I wanted him to die knowing that I was everything she made me. That I might kill, but I didn't enjoy it the way my father did.
"You're a stain on the Earth, and you need to be removed so our women can be safe," Ryker's voice carried all the fury he held, and I had to imagine it was largely in part due to the fact that he was so close to claiming Calla. That his self-imposed deadline would expire soon.
I might have pitied her for the shock she had coming her way, if I didn't know that Ryker would be better to her than she could ever dream.
"You don't have a woman," my father laughed, and even at his age his shirtless body was lean.
Ryker leaned in, giving my father that terrifying grin of his that showed just how closely the monster played at his surface. I honestly wasn't sure if he had a surface. "I'm about to."
Gabriele turned his attention to me finally. "Well?"
"What was the plan? What were you going to do with my wife?" I hissed, fury making my body lock solid. I wanted to play casual, wanted to make sure he never saw how it burned me to know that he'd so desperately tried to take away the only thing I loved.
"Walsh needed money, I needed her gone. Murphy wasn't willing to go toe to toe with Matteo over a piece of ass, so I found a private buyer in Mexico. He has a thing for redheads, and they're so rare down there." He stared at me, as if he could make me see the truth of his words. I didn't need to see them, because I could feel that they were true, and they only echoed what Emilio had told me before I shot him.
He'd intended to sell my wife to another man.
"She's worth a lot of money if you'd like to reconsider—" Ryker's fist connected with his face, so sharply that Gabriele spit out a bloody tooth.
"Did you love my mother?" I asked, and I made a good show of fidgeting with the tools on the table. Ryker's eyes lit with excitement, the messed-up dude wanting nothing more than to take out his frustrations on Gabriele. There was nothing, and I mean nothing the man hated more than people who preyed on women and children. I suspected it went back to his childhood, but no one would ever know.
There was probably a reason that he and Scar had an unspoken bond, that even though they didn't ever seem to speak of it, they had each other's backs.
"Of course I loved her. Why do you think I spent your entire life telling you that love weakened you?" Gabriele spat.
"And what would you have done if someone tried to sell her?" My words came out in a rough growl, because I knew what I would have done if someone tried to sell her. Even though I'd been young, I'd have tried to kill them slowly, such was the way my father had trained me from the moment I could hold a gun or a knife in my hand.
I vowed that my children would be allowed to be children, that they'd know the affection of their mother and father. Even if they would one day follow in mine and Matteo’s footsteps, there was no way I could ever force that on them when the biggest concern they should have was losing a game of soccer.
"I'd have made him suffer," Gabriele snarled. I knew it was meant to push me to that edge, to the horrifying thing he'd tried to turn me into.
“Right, so you know exactly what’s coming,” I snarled, but I stepped back and leaned my back into the wall. As much as I wanted to torment him, I wasn’t interested in becoming what he’d always wanted me to be. Someone who enjoyed torture, who thrived on it.
But he had to suffer, and I’d enjoy watching it.
I nodded to Ryker, and the man went to the door. We waited in silence, and I knew my father knew what was coming. When Ryker returned, the brand held in his hands, he strode up to Gabriele. The moment the brand touched the flesh of his chest, he gritted his teeth. His burning flesh filled the room with a putrid stink, the sound of it sizzling seemed to echo in the otherwise quiet space as Gabriele refused to scream. Once the brand pulled off his chest, the word Traitor stared back at me.
I watched, keeping my face impassive as Ryker went through tool after tool. He took everything my father had: his blood, his nails, his tongue, and eventually all his fingers. The way he worked was systematic, as if he didn’t enjoy it, but I knew better. Ryker’s cruel blue eyes glinted with joy every time my father grunted in pain, and when he eventually shouted when Ryker finally grabbed the fillet knife, a smile broke out on my friend’s face.
“No man sells a woman, so I think it only fitting that you no longer be a man,” Ryker grinned at him. I pitied him for having to look at my father after he cut his underwear away, for having to reach out with a gloved hand to hold him in the proper position while my father struggled.