Chapter 9
Nolan trembled, his fair skin glistening with cold sweat despite the summer heat. The cinematic sunlight beat down on the patio, illuminating the blood dripping from his nose. He looked at Salvatore’s cold, sharp eyes, realizing that the man standing above him was no longer a human being; he was the reaper.
"It was Volkov," Nolan choked out, the name tearing from his throat like barbed wire. "Dmitri Volkov. The Russian syndicate from Brighton Beach."
A collective murmur of shock rippled through the captive guests. The Volkov syndicate was a brutal, utterly ruthless faction that had been trying to encroach on Carbone territory for a decade. Giving a Carbone wife to Dmitri Volkov wasn't just a cover-up; it was an act of high treason that could spark a full-scale underworld war.
"Volkov," Salvatore repeated. He spoke the name slowly, tasting the poison of it. He looked down at his tattooed hands, the refined, sharp designs standing out starkly against his knuckles.
"He wanted leverage, Sal," Nolan wept, wiping his bleeding nose with the sleeve of his tailored suit. "He said if we gave him your wife, he would help us launder the embezzled money through his casinos. We didn't think he would hurt her. We thought he just wanted to use her to negotiate the territory lines with you!"
"You handed my heart to a butcher," Salvatore said, his voice barely a breath, yet it carried over the entire patio.
"Salvatore, please," Hattie begged from the ruins of the fruit display. She crawled forward on her hands and knees, ignoring the crushed apples staining her dress. "We can fix this! We can pay Volkov off! We have the money in offshore accounts. I will give you everything! Just spare us!"
Salvatore didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on Nolan. The handsome, masculine face of the Mafia boss was a portrait of icy resolve.
"You starved my mother," Salvatore stated, recounting their sins with a slow, measured cadence. "You traumatized my daughter. You stole from my family. And you sold my wife to the Russians."
Salvatore reached behind his back, slipping his hand beneath the tailored jacket of his suit. When he brought his hand back around, the bright natural light gleamed off the brushed steel of a suppressed, heavy-caliber pistol.
Several guests screamed, stepping back against the stone planters.
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"Sal, wait!" Nolan shrieked, holding his hands up in front of his face. "You need me! You don't know the layout of the warehouse!"
"I will figure it out," Salvatore whispered.
