Page 42 of Vicious Intentions
When I reach a message explaining that her brother Marcello and Stella killed the ones who dared touch her without consent, a part of me is satisfied that she received that kind of justice. Even though I despise the Romanos, it brings me no satisfaction to hear that a woman was attacked like that. Especially a young girl like Annamaria. I may hate everything that she represents, but she’s still an innocent in all of this.
My gaze drifts away from the screen to the woman humming “Jingle Bells” as she washes dishes at the sink. No woman deserves to be touched like that. No innocent should ever be tainted by such cruel and malicious hands.
My mood sours instantly at the thought. I place the phone back on the table and quickly say my goodbyes to my mother.
“Aren’t you going to wait for Nico and Rafe?” she asks.
“No. I have other business to attend to.”I force a smile. “Ti voglio bene, mamma.”
“Ti voglio tanto bene, figlio mio.”
She offers me a kind smile, and I press a gentle kiss to her cheek before heading out the door, needing to put this restless energy to good use. And I know exactly where to go.
Thirty minutes later, I arrive at a safe house, one of several that I keep under constant rotation. Four of my most loyal men are on watch this morning, along with Alfonso Moretti’s heir, Rocco. He stands at the entrance, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.
“Morning, boss,” he says with an easy grin.
“How is he today?” I ask in lieu of a greeting.
“The same,” Rocco replies with a shrug. “Babbling nonsense for anyone who’ll listen.”
“Andisanyone listening?” I cock a brow.
“Not our guys,” he says with a smirk. “Gotta say, boss. I wasn’t expecting you to make another visit so soon.”
“What can I say? I couldn’t wait.” He nods and steps aside.
I move past Rocco and descend into the building’s lower levels, past reinforced doors and concrete corridors that date back decades. The shelter was built during the Cold War, buried beneath what was once a city-owned facility, meant to house officials if the world above went up in flames. With thick concrete walls, narrow halls, no windows, and no signal, it’s a place designed to be forgotten—the perfect place to keep my prisoner.
At the end of the corridor, a heavy red steel door awaits, chipped and scarred with age. Beyond it lies the deepest level of the bunker. Down here, no matter how loud someone screams, no sound reaches the surface. No one hears anything.
I push the door open and almost smile when I see my father still chained to the wall, wrists and ankles bound, his arms spread wide. Blood stains his dirty shirt from our encounter last night, dark and drying against the worn fabric.
Normally, I would give him a day or two to recover. Let him regain his strength. Let the fear settle in properly. But after reading that text about Annamaria’s assault… After seeing the way my mother flinched when Raffaele raised his voice just a little too high… After remembering everything I had to endure to protect my baby brother… No. I couldn’t wait another hour, much less a couple of days.
When my father hears the familiar sound of my shoes tapping against the cement floor and lifts his head just enoughto look at me, the fear in his eyes nearly—just nearly—cools the rage bubbling in my veins.
Only his wails, raw and broken, will quiet what’s burning inside me. My father’s screams will be the music that fills this bunker, each one drawn out until they rise and fall exactly the way I decide. Like an orchestra conductor, I will pull every ounce of misery and pain from him, shaping it into a song I am finally content with. I won’t leave until every sound he makes belongs to me.
In all my years, the asshole has never given me a Christmas present. But today, he will give me the best one of all—his suffering.
Chapter 8
Annamaria
Sixteen years old
Rafe:I’m in Chicago.
Rafe:I’ll be in the woods behind your house during your party.
Rafe:Meet me at sunset.
I’ve read Raffaele’s texts so many times I’ve committed them to memory. When I woke up this morning, this was not how I expected the day to begin. I thought Raffaele would send me a cute GIF or one of his stupidly funny memes to wish me a happy birthday, not get on a plane and fly all the way from New York just to see me.
I’d been a ball of nerves all day, which my family has thankfully dismissed as my usual anxiety over the lavish sweet sixteen my parents are throwing tonight. Everyone knows that crowds make me uncomfortable, so no one has questioned my jitters.
If I had it my way, I would have spent my birthday at home with my family, not at the old Salvatore mansion. But a milestone like this couldn’t be avoided. Not when your father is theCapo dei Capiof the Outfit. His youngest daughter turning sixteen was always going to be a grand event, whether I wanted it or not.
