Page 3 of The Mastermind
‘You think this is funny?’ I seethed.
‘I’m just saying you’ll ruin your hands and unless you plan to keep your gloves on all weekend at the next race, someone will notice your handiwork. Do we even know for a fact that something’s going on?’
‘I’ve been telling you for weeks that we have a mole,’ I snapped. ‘Possibly several of them. Cos these fucking rats always travel in packs, don’t they?’
Rafaelle’s easy charm vanished. Death slid into his eyes, easing my black mood to have his full attention. ‘You know this for a fact?’
‘Fist has been looking into it. He caught this one with a burner. Connected a few dots, found some fresh cash in his account and shook him up a little before he brought him here.’ I kicked the piece of shit, then glared at my brother. ‘Before a month ago, when was the last time we lost three races in a row? Or finished outside the top five?’
Rafa’s brows bunched, then he shook his head. ‘Never.’ He looked down at the whimpering asshole, then sighed. ‘Fine. But let someone else have a go with him.’
Relinquishing control didn’t come easy to me. Never had. Which was why I was determined to make Furia Racing work. It was my ticket out of a mobster’s shortened destiny at the end of a fired gun or a slit throat.
And it had been working like a dream.
We were a relatively young team on the Formula One racing circuit. But we’d entered with a proverbial bang and quickly made our mark by securing our place at the top of the pile, aided by not so clean money funnelled from our various Salvatore concerns.
Everything had been going swimmingly. Or as smoothly as a Sicilian mafia operation could go these days. Until the Mancinelli fucking Family decided to muscle in where they weren’t wanted.
But that was the story of our lives, wasn’t it?
The Salvatores and the Mancinellis. The real-life unoriginal Romeo and Juliet tragedy, locked in war and hatred over a long-dead woman.
We’d been the bane of each other’s lives for almost three quarters of a century. Our violent friction was well-documented and even celebrated since the Salvatores held the record for coming out on top. That tally tickled Orazio no end, hence his feral need to keep controlling everything.
When it came to sustaining vendettas, he was firmly in the win-at-all-costs-or-die-trying camp. He’d made damned sure that unwavering principle was drilled into every one of us before we turned five.
‘Go on. It’s my turn.’ Rafaelle shooed me away, moving in without permission.
I gritted my teeth and let go of the weasel’s lapel. Snatching a spotless handkerchief from my pocket, I cleaned the blood off my knuckles and paced away as my brother crouched next to my soon-to-be-dead ex-employee.
Rafa didn’t use his fists to shut the man up. Hell, he looked weirdly entertained, watching the fucker cry and snot all over himself. I didn’t hear what he whispered in the idiot’s ear, but the already pale man went as white as a sheet. Then he started blubbering even faster.
Arms folded, I suppressed that flash of unease I experienced when I watched my brother at work.
Every male Salvatore had done a stint in the US military. Some bullshit character-building plan Orazio Salvatore had read somewhere and decided to instil in his family. I was a marine for exactly one tour before my father yanked me out. Rafaelle did two tours with a special ops team he still never spoke about. We all suspected whatever skills he’d been trained to utilise contributed to his deadliness. Even I was occasionally afraid to turn my back on him, and he was the one person I trusted above any other in the world.
I watched him hook the tips of his fingers into the weasel’s cricoid cartilage and squeeze, that same placid expression on his face. The pain would be excruciating. The lack of oxygen terrifying.
‘You’re about thirty seconds away from dying,’ Rafa informed him casually. ‘Besides the two names you’ve given us, is there anyone else involved in your little operation?’
The man mouthedno, no, no, attempting to shake his head while wrestling free from Rafa’s chokehold. Realising he couldn’t, naked fear surged in his eyes, right before the stench of ammonia filled the garage.
Rafa hissed and sidestepped the spread of piss before it touched his polished Prada wingtips. ‘Crap. He’s telling the truth. He knows fuck all.’
At age thirty-one to my thirty-two, Rafaelle had been my shadow since before we hit puberty. We’d sliced and diced, pummelled and buried enough assholes to know when an interrogation was a lost cause.
I returned to the traitor’s side and leaned over to look into his florid face. ‘Do you have life insurance?’
‘W-what?’ His eyes were bloodshot from Rafa’s treatment and my punches, but they blinked rapidly to meet mine.
‘You have a wife and two kids under five. A man should make thoughtful contingencies for his family before he passes, especially when his job description includes other dangerous side gigs besides just ‘hospitality,’ don’t you think?’
‘I… I… Please, Boss. I didn’t mean to. I just… The money was…’ He quit talking while he was ahead in favour of staring imploringly up at me. If only I had an ounce of the mercy he sought. But nobody toyed with my dream and lived. Especially a dream the Mancinellis were horning in on like the fucking parasites they were.
‘You didn’t answer my question. I suggest you do it quickly. I’m not in the mood to stand here inhaling the fumes of your piss. Are you a snivelling, lying little piece of shit who doesn’t take care of his family and betrays his employer for a few thousand dollars or not?’
The misery that drenched his face gave me my answer.
