Page 64 of Knocked Up by My Dad's Mafia Boss

I glance back at him at the doorway.

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you. I know how loyal you’ve always been.”

Right. Loyal.

So loyal I’ve been fucking his baby girl.

I nod sharply and head downstairs. I walk through the gym to the back of the basement, where a steel door stands.

I punch in the keycode—Samantha’s birthday.

The door slides open and the man jerks awake, straining at his restraints, biceps bulging.

He’s a big guy, nearly as tall and broad as me, but Elio’s got him locked down with zipties around his ankles and wrists, tying him to the chair. I don’t recognize him, but his eyes widen like he recognizes me.

“You’re Elio’s bulldog,” he rasps.

I grin despite myself. “Haven’t heard that nickname yet. Not bad.”

“I’ve heard about you. They say you bite down and don’t let go.”

“Is that what they say?”

He swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple working as I walk over to the instrument table. The instruments are silver, shining in the bright overhead light of the room. I look down at the floor and see the years of blood staining the hardwood.

I draw in a deep breath and go somewhere else in my mind. The beach, maybe. I’ve always liked the ocean breeze.

Unbidden, I think of Samantha. I picture her standing on a balcony overlooking the ocean, the wind whipping her dark hair around her face. She looks back at me, smiling, and I shake my head to clear it.

“Look, man, you don’t have to do this. I’ll tell you everything I know, but I don’t know much.”

I hum. “You’d be surprised how much you know when the shit hits the fan.” I pick up a scalpel, freshly sharpened. Elio keeps this place pristine, other than the bloodstains. He says it gives it “ambiance.” Whatever that means. “Grice, right?”

He trembles. “Yes. Peter Grice.”

“Nice to meet you, Pete,” I say, crouching in front of him, the scalpel in my right hand. “You don’t mind if I call you Pete, do you?”

He shakes his head quickly. “Please–” he whines, but I ignore him.

I take his hand and he tries to wrench away, closing his fist over the chair arm. “Uh-uh,” I scold, peeling his fingers straight. “This will only hurt more if you struggle. This scalpel is sharp, and if I slip, I might take off a finger. Or two.”

He freezes, stretches his fingers out. “Good job, Pete. You’re doing great.”

“Wh-what are you doing?”

I place the scalpel tip right beneath the nailbed of his thumb. “Nothing too permanent. Your nail will grow back. Takes a few months for a thumbnail, though.”

He screams but it comes out quiet and reedy. His hands shake. “I told you I’ll tell you all I know!”

I rock back on my heels, looking up at his terrified brown eyes. I feel nothing. Blank. Like an empty canvas. “Go on then, Pete. Tell me.”

“I work for Luciano Ricci.”

I tsk. “I already knew that, Pete.” I push the scalpel forward and pop his thumbnail up like a garage door.

He screams again, louder this time, rocking the chair as much as it’ll rock. It’s bolted to the floor, but it’s a little loose. I’ll have to tell Elio that we need to tighten it. I hum. “Tell me something I don’t know this time, Pete.”

He breathes out a harsh breath, trying to calm himself. “There’s a rat in Elio’s army.”