Chapter 8~ Sneaky Bastard

Chapter 8

Vincenzo

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She didn’t say anything after that, which was good because I could use the silence. I moved to the doorway, then changed my mind, not sure if I could trust her not to dig a hole through the wall and crawl out.

I just stood at the doorway, staring at Stacy as she sat there, examining her wrists which were still red from the cuffs, then as if realizing she had a job to make my life miserable, she stood up and went around the room, turning and scrutinizing things like this was a room she’d traveled and left unoccupied for the longest time.

A small, infuriating smile played on her lips as she flipped one thing after the other. There were no weapons in here, I'd asked Vito to make sure of it, so I didn't try to stop her, instead, I let my mind wander off.

That was until I heard her voice, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. “You look like you could use a drink,” Stacy said, her eyes flicking to the locked winery. “Something very strong.”

“Why are you always so damn flippant?” I snapped in annoyance.

She shrugged, her lips curling into that infuriating smirk. “Maybe I just find this whole situation funny. Or maybe,” she paused, tilting her head slightly, “I know it annoys you.”

I clenched my jaw, trying to push down the irritation bubbling inside me.

She was doing this on purpose, testing my patience, seeing how far she could push before I snapped. It was almost as if she enjoyed watching me teeter on the edge.

As if on cue, Stacy’s voice cut through my thoughts again. “I’m guessing this is your room, although I must say, your taste in decoration is just as colorless as your brother’s wardrobe. Everything is black and gray. How have you not gone blind? All your workers must be suffering from color blindness.” Seeing how I was glaring at her, she swallowed her next words, but not for long. “So why am I here?”

Her tone was light as she casually crossed her legs. The way she sprawled out on the bed, acting like she belonged here, made my blood boil.

Before I could think if anything to say, her eyes lit up with both surprise and fascination. “What’s this?”

I followed her eyes until they landed on the small wooden toy sitting on the nightstand. It was a simple thing, hand-carved and old, something my mother had made for me when I was just a boy.

I wasn’t superstitious, but that toy had brought me more luck than anything else in my life. And it was a piece of her, a connection to a past I couldn’t quite let go of.

But there was no way in hell I was going to explain that to her.

“Do you have a secret bastard like your dad did? Where’s he hiding?” she scanned the room frantically like the said bastard would crawl out of an invisible portal, holding up the toy as if it were some kind of joke.

I swallowed the urge to snap her neck. “No.” I answered curtly, my voice tight with barely restrained anger.

She stared at the toy, a thoughtful expression crossing her face, then she burst into a fit of laughter— having probably seen my name carved on the side.

“Don’t tell me this is yours!” she cackled, her voice grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

I exhaled quietly, desperately trying to keep my cool. “Put that down.”

But she wasn’t listening.

“So you still play with toys? Everyone come and see!” Her voice was mocking, taunting, and I could feel my patience wearing thin. “Your boss plays with kid toys!”

“This room is soundproof, Eustacia,” I reminded her coldly, stepping closer. “Put it down. Now.”

Instead of complying, she held the toy out of my reach, sliding further into the bed, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“What’s the matter, Vincenzo? Afraid I’ll break your precious toy?”

Her words hit me like a slap to the face. I lunged into the bed, trying to snatch the toy from her hands. But as our hands collided, something shifted. One second I was trying to grab the toy, and the next, I was inches from her face, our bodies dangerously close.

She had that same infuriating smile on her lips, the kind that made me want to wipe it off with my fist. My hand had closed around hers, both of us holding the small wooden figure, neither of us willing to let go.

The air between us cackled with tension, the kind that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I was close enough to see every detail of her face– the way her breath hitched slightly, the way her eyes darkened with something I couldn't quite place.

I couldn’t stop my eyes from drifting to her lips—plush, red, and maddeningly close. They parted slightly, and for a moment, all I could think of was how they would feel against mine.

As sweet as her lovely face or as bitter as her heart?

But I could never find out. Wouldn't.

I hated her. She was my enemy, my prisoner. I felt a searing wave of disgust wash over me– not at her, but myself, for even letting my mind conjure such stupid image of her.

Stacy didn't move, didn't flinch.

She just stared back at me like she was memorizing my face, that infuriating smile twisting the corners of her lips. She knew exactly what she was doing and that tripled my hatred for her.

This woman had the spirit of Jezebel and Delilah inside her, a power over men that never ended well for anyone who let it win. The mere thought that I could be swayed by her, even for a second, made my skin crawl.

Finally, I yanked the toy from her grip, jumping off the bed as I did. The moment was broken, the spell shattered. But the disgust remained, coiling in my gut like a snake.

“Don’t touch what isn’t yours,” I snapped, my voice roughly sharp.

She just smirked and leaned back on the bed like she’d won some kind of victory. “Careful, Vincenzo,” she purred. “You might start enjoying my company.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I shot back, turning to leave before I did something I’d regret.

But as I reached the door, I stopped and glanced back at her. “You stink,” I said in a blunt, flat tone.

“You didn't seem to think so just now,” She retorted, but the way her cheeks darkened with color made me want to smile.

“You’ve contaminated the whole room. You probably need to be scrubbed by a thousand maids, and everything you’ve touched needs to be thoroughly decontaminated.”

She rolled her eyes, a small, mocking smile on her lips. “Well, since you’re not so good at getting information,” she remarked in a salty tone, “how about getting me some food? Maybe some toiletries too. I might be your prisoner, but a girl’s got needs. I'll pass on the thousand maids offer though, just point me to the bathroom."

Her casual tone, the way she treated this as if it were some minor inconvenience that would be taken care of soon enough pissed me off beyond reason.

But there was a part of me—a very small, very quiet part—that found her weird sense of humor almost… amusing.

Almost.

“That’s the bathroom,” I nodded towards the door, “You have permission to strangle yourself with the shower head.”

“Oh, don't count on it,” she replied, batting her eyelashes in mock innocence.

I turned away from her and made my way back to the door, but her voice stopped me.

“Vincenzo,” I paused, not turning back to look at her. “I don’t like Italian food, so whatever you’re sending up here should be worth every bite.”

This time, I turned and glanced at her, she was already removing the straps on her shirt. I quickly looked away, hissing under my breath.

“I don’t remember promising you food.”

She grinned. “It’ll be very shameful for me to die out of hunger while under your custody, don’t you think?”

There she goes playing that cheap death card again.

I felt a fresh wave of frustration surge through me, but I forced myself to turn away. Without another word, I slammed the door behind me, leaving her alone in the room that now felt far too small for both of us.

Taking Stacy's place in my mind now that I was out of her sight was the Irishman.

The name rattled around in my head, a puzzle piece that just didn’t fit. What the hell would make Tristiano meet up with the Irish?

My mind spun with possibilities, none of them good. The Irish and the Italians had been at each other’s throats for years—bad blood, old grudges, the usual.

Everyone knew that.

For the last hour, I had been in that room with that guy, trying to beat information out of the bastard while also keeping an eye on the sleeping bag of trouble on the bed.

My knuckles were bruised, the taste of copper still lingering on my tongue from where I’d bitten the inside of my cheek in frustration.

And yet, in the space of a few minutes, with nothing but her voice, Stacy had managed to extract the very information I’d been breaking bones for.

Clyde Cummiskey.

That fucking sneaky bastard.

It wasn’t the name that shocked me—it was how easily she had gotten it. As if she were plucking it out of thin air, while I had been on the verge of killing the guy for it.

I could have wasted another day or two chasing down leads, all while that rat bled out in some dark alley, only for it to lead right back to the same name.

Instead, here it was, handed to me on a silver platter by that annoying witch.

The scuffle between Region Mafia Men and the Irish cartel was as old as the city itself, going back generations, even before I was born—hell, before my father was born.

It was a blood feud, one that had no end in sight.

But the fucked-up part, the part that made my stomach twist, was that Tristiano knew this. If anything, he was the one who told me the story the first time I heard it.

How then did he end up on the Irish soil without a goddamn head on his neck?

If that fellow was telling the entire truth, which I was having trouble believing he was, then Tristaino had literally gone there to knock on death’s door.

Did they have something on him?

And if they did, what was it that had to cost him his head, and everything else?

Aurelio and Vito were already waiting in the sitting room, standing over the guy, he must have ran straight into their hands the moment he left the room. He looked even worse than the last time I saw him—his face swollen and bloodied, a pathetic shell of a man.

Aurelio’s eyes locked onto mine the moment I stepped in. “Did you get anything out of him?” he asked, his voice sharp and impatient.

“She did,” I replied, my tone flat.

Both Aurelio and Vito frowned in unison. “She?” Vito echoed, disbelief coloring his voice.

“Long story,” I said dismissively, not in the mood to explain how Stacy had managed to worm some information out of the bastard. “What I know is that he drove Tristiano to meet Clyde Cummiskey, on Tristiano’s order.” I looked at the guy, who was trembling under Aurelio’s cold stare. “Anything else you forgot to add?”

“They asked me to wait in the car,” the man stammered in a shaky voice. “I waited for three hours before an Irish man came out and told me to leave. I said I needed orders from my boss first, but they threatened to kill me and said Tristiano wasn’t ready to leave yet.”

Aurelio’s eyes darkened with anger. “So you left him there?”

“It was either that or I die—”

Before he could finish, Vito scoffed. “And you thought coming back here would keep you alive? Why didn’t you tell us all this when we started looking for him?”

The man hesitated, fear and regret etched across his face. “Because I didn’t know if you’d believe me.”

Aurelio didn’t waste any more time. His fist connected with the man’s face, sending him crashing to the floor with a series of brutal punches. The guy’s screams turned into pathetic whimpers, blood pooling under him.

When Vito finally pulled Aurelio from the almost dead guy, he let out a pained yelp that shattered my heart to a million pieces.

“My brother was fucking murdered by those bastards!” Aurelio hissed, his voice breaking with fury and grief. “They lured him in and killed Jon, don’t you fucking understand?”

Vito patted him on the back, “We’ll get to the root of this.”

Aurelio raked his hand through his hair, his eyes wild with emotion, suddenly, he turned on me and grabbed me by the collar. “I don’t believe a word this fucker says! Tristiano played this game for thirty fucking years! He knew the risks, he would never sign his own death certificate like this.”

Aurelio’s grip tightened, and I could feel the raw pain radiating off him. He wasn’t just angry—he was devastated.

And I couldn’t blame him.

Tristiano had been more than just a brother to Aurelio; he was a mentor, a father right from childhood when their mother left him to freeze to death in the cold rain three weeks after his birth.

The idea that Tristiano would make a fatal mistake such as this didn’t make any sense to any of us.

“Aurelio.” My voice was a silent order for him to pull himself together.

Aurelio released me immediately, taking a step back as he tried desperately to compose himself. “I'm so sorry,” his voice broke when he tried to straighten my crumpled collar with his hands.

I held him, silently telling him I understood. “This guy,” I jerked my head toward the sniveling mess on the floor, “might be our only lead.”

“I need answers, Vincenzo. You know damn well that Fio and Nathan will not handle this well.”

I nodded silently. “That’s why we’re going to go out like they asked.”

Vito raised an eyebrow, “We are taking their bait now?”

Aurelio asked, “Go out to where?”

“To meet the fucking Irish.”