Alessandro DeLuca

There’s no point in me staying home tonight, so the solution about where to go is obvious. Although I know I won’t find anyone interesting, I still need to attend to some business matters.

My daughter hops up and runs to her room to do what I asked, and I head to the shower to get ready for another night.

***

“You stole from me, you slimy muthafucka!!!”

“Tuono! C’è un malintesto! Lo guiro!”

“When your wife finds out that you’re not coming home, we’ll tell her there was a misunderstanding,” I say.

“Per favore!” he pleads, dropping to his knees in front of the chair I’m sitting in.

Salvatore Esposito was my club manager until a couple of nights ago. I’ve always kept an eye on the books since my father placed me in charge of my family’s club upon returning home two years ago. I stopped watching carefully a while back as we began scouting new ventures. I trusted him and my accountant as much as possible, but it wasn’t until three months ago that I realized things weren’t adding up.

I brought it to my accountant’s attention, who’d set up an appointment with me to discuss the same thing. We’d put traceable cash in the safe to see how he would manage those amounts. I’d even set some men up to track his every move and that of his family.

Unfortunately, those marked bills had begun showing up in businesses all around the city. That’s where he went wrong. The DeLucas fingers are in everything in Cagliari.

I’d finally decided to confront the situation tonight. My guys didn’t let him leave work two nights ago, and he’s been locked in this room since, waiting in fear.

I don’t always address a situation right away. I’d rather let my enemy stew in fear, wondering when and how I’ll come and what I’ll do. I come when they least expect it.

I take a sip of Macallan and think about Salvatore’s wife, Fiore. She’s not too bad looking, but she’s got a rack on her out-of-this-world. I think about the times she let me know she would be available to please me. She’s an easy target.

Poor Salvatore.

I toss the rest of the Macallan back and nod to Knuckles briefly.

“I don’t like thieves, Sal.”

“I was in a bad situation,” he sputters in Italian.

“Now you’ve left that pretty little Fiore in a bad situation. I wonder who’ll be warming her bed tonight,” I say.

“Please…please don’t do this to me! To her!”

“You should’ve thought about that before doing what you did to me.”

Bones jerk the man off his feet and holds a gun to his head as he pisses himself.

“Sit him down and secure him,” I say drily, as if this is the weather report I’m watching.

Salvatore struggles against it, but Bones has no problem getting him in the chair and strapped down while Knuckles holds the gun. Once they’re done, I glance at Knuckles again, and he grabs the man’s wrist, placing it on the table.

Using a machete, he cuts off the tip of Salvatore’s thumb and pinky before moving to the left ring finger and severs it at the bottom.

Each of his excruciating cries grows louder and louder until he sways and goes pale.

“Aye! Not on my shoes,” I call out, rolling my chair backward as he pukes.

He narrowly misses my suede shoes, and I nod at Bones, who leaves to get someone to clean up the mess.

Holding up Salvatore’s severed ring finger, Knuckles asks, “Boss, you want I should send this to his wife now?”

Pouring another glass of the premium Scotch, I coolly reply, “Not yet. The fun hasn’t started.”

When Bones returns with one of my guys, Santino, to clean the mess, he says, “Your guest is here, Boss.”