Page 29 of Twisted Vows

Chapter 6

Enzo

My thumb works the knife cover. Snap. Snap. Snap. A metronome for restless hands. The Swiss Army knife was Dante’s final gift to me. According to my shrink, fiddling with the knife whenever I’m on edge allows me to feel a bit closer to my brother. The blade slices through the dead air like a set of clacking wolf jaws. I prefer that sound to the deathly silence in the car.

The sun’s dying, and the blade catches those last lazy rays, the light flashing across my knuckles. Years of flipping have worn it into a simple comfort. Just a way to occupy my hands so my mind doesn’t wander too far.

The passenger seat cramps my knees. Every time I breathe, the sick-sweet floral stench of Izzy’s lingering perfume assaults my nostrils.

Out the window, the city smears by in a mess of yellow lights and muddy concrete. Nothing crisp about it. The Maserati thrums beneath us, twitchy as hell. Feels like it might start chewing through the asphalt if Marco ever gets brave enough with the gas pedal.

Marco’s doing his best impression of a stressed-out driving instructor, his white-knuckled hands set at nine and three. His white blond hair sticks up at odd angles, like he’s been running his hands through it all day. Sweat’s rolling down his temple, and his jaw’s tight with frustration. Marco’s spent half the day chasing leads on Vincent’s potential hideouts. Might as well have been chasing his own damn shadow.

“Six stops,” he grumbles, his voice thin, “and nada. Bet this place is just another dead end. Goose chase.”

I stop his whining by snapping the knife shut.

“Drive.” My tone brooks no argument.

He sighs and returns his focus to the road. Leaning back into the upholstery, I stare out the window, glad he finally got the memo. Silence keeps my head straight. Marco’s close to me, but that doesn't mean he gets to fill every second with noise. I need the quiet to think. Or to not think. Either works.

The warehouse squats on the edge of the block, gray, ugly, and crooked like a busted tooth. Boards shutter the windows, rust drips down every hinge, and the thick stench of old beer and gasoline clings to the air. The place looks as if it’s been coughing up secrets for ages, and tonight, maybe, it’ll cough up one more.

Sophia said Vincent used this place years ago. Could be the truth. Could be bullshit. But I need to believe her, even as doubt squeezes my ribs.

Uninvited memories resurface, crawling up from wherever I’ve been trying to bury them. Her quick, shallow breath on that cot. Her fingers curling in my palm like she was drowning and I was the only thing solid left in her world. The flash of fire in her eyes when she challenged me as if she forgot I could kill her.

Sophia Martinelli’s a pawn, maybe, but not a passive one. She’s got teeth hidden behind that frightened schoolteacher mask, and that suggests she’s dangerous in ways I’m not ready to admit.

As we enter, the warehouse echoes. I’m about to declare the place empty and tell Marco to get back in the car when my eyes snag on shifting shadows behind stacks of crates.

I take one step forward, and a bottle clatters to the floor, kicked by one of the shadows, probably on purpose.

A skinny man with gold chains comes into view, his whistle slow and mocking. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Beside me, Marco tenses.

More figures materialize behind him. Wielding bats. Pipes. The usual welcome wagon. One man points at a black duffel on the table, its side stamped with an unmistakable emblem. A serpent coiled around a skull.

That belongs to the Volkov Bratva.

The skinny one wraps a hand around his bat. “You somehow got wind of this and wanted our money for yourselves, right? Well, you made a mistake.”

I clear my throat. “What are local dogs like you doing with a bag filled with mob money?”

“The hell’s it to you?” He cocks his head and smacks the bat into his open palm.

The sound reverberates through the warehouse.

Behind him, the other four spread out. A stocky guy with a shaved head and scarred knuckles flexes his fingers. A wiry one with a patchy beard flips a butterfly knife open and closed. Click, click, click. An older man, maybe forty-five, with prison tattoos covering both forearms, stands near the duffel, his arms crossed. The fifth—a kid, really, barely twenty with acne scars—hovers near the back, clutching a rusty crowbar.

My blood rises, but I don’t say anything more as they circle us like wolves. Chains jingle. Boots scrape concrete. The metallic click of the butterfly knife keeps rhythm.

Marco stiffens and keeps his voice low. “We’re just here to talk.”

In my head, I name them. Another ritual. Naming them makes them targets, not people. Easier to hurt a label than a man. The grinning one with about half a dozen faded yellow trinkets on his neck becomes Gold Chain. The stocky guy I dub Scarred Knuckles joins Gold Chain in grinning, showing off his missing front tooth.

Patchy Beard would work for the wiry one, but the butterfly knife he won’t stop flipping wins out. Butterfly Knife it is.