August 21, 1944

There’s a reason even the godfather of Seattle respects Orazio Caserta’s rules.

He’s always been a ruthless son of a bitch. Despite his affinity for peace in his restaurant, he is very much capable of destruction.

Truthfully, I never thought I’d see the day where anyone disrespected his rules, but part of me is glad I lived to see it.

The photographs splayed out on Angelo’s desk would have a weaker stomach purging. Evidence of Orazio’s work on Manny Baldelli’s oldest child, Nico, and Marco Viscuso himself.

Turns out, when we had dinner with the Viscusos at Caserta’s, Marco had already pledged his loyalty to Manny in exchange for his son, Gabriele, to keep his mouth shut to the fuzz about Marco’s operations. But for Manny to accept his pledge, he had one requirement of Marco.

Whack Angelo.

That day at Caserta’s, Marco made one last effort to gain Angelo’s approval to ice Gabriele, but Angelo refused and unknowingly sealed his fate.

So, although it was Marco’s men who pulled the trigger that day, it was Manny who put out the contract.

Orazio took that as a great insult and punished both families for daring to cross him at his restaurant.

“Kid just turned eighteen and was gettin’ ready to be shipped off to war,” Angelo says, slapping yet another photograph onto his ornate wooden desk before Alfonso and me.

Such ugly images to lay upon such grand furniture.

Angelo has always had expensive taste. Rococo ornamentation engulfs the office in intricate golden designs that crawl up the white walls to a plafond ceiling. Built-in golden shelves span the wall behind his desk, save for an alcove in the center where a copycat painting of the Mona Lisa hangs. Miniature statues and old books inherited through his family fill the shelves, and Roman mythology paintings make up several art pieces and murals around the room, completed by a diamond-pattern tile floor, each piece a different shade of brown.

Angelo Salvatore is a devout Catholic man, which is why he turns away his religious statues when it’s time for his cocaine fix.

“Seems that would have been a mercy,” Alfonso drawls, inhaling his cigarette as he stares at the images with detachment.

It would have.

Orazio’s father, Paris, loves horses, so much so that he owns two derby-winning stallions. He bets on them, too, and so far, he hasn’t gone home empty-handed.

Growing up, Orazio was a jockey in some of those races and became very well-acquainted with the beasts. Paris used to call him the horse whisperer for his knack for taming them and getting them to do exactly as he asked.

A skill that seems to have stuck with him, seeing as how he got four horses to rip Nico and Marco into pieces.

“Orazio made it clear it wasn’t a quick death,” Angelo says, chuckling. “Apparently, the horses didn’t run. They walked. Slowly rippin’ off the limbs from their bodies.”

I cock a brow, aimlessly rubbing my thumb across my bottom lip as I stare at the photos. The men’s torsos are in the middle, and each of their limbs is placed several feet from where they’re supposed to be. I don’t need to see the photographs in color to know that barely a speck of the grass beneath them is still green.

Somehow, that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is the tourniquets wrapped around each of their remaining stubs, cutting off the blood flow and subsequently keeping them alive for longer.

“Did he say how long they were alive after?” I ask, focusing on Angelo. Yet the sight of Nico and Marco each ripped into five pieces is one that will forever be burned into my memory.

“Little under two hours.”

“Jesus,” I mutter beneath my breath. “Marco deserved that fate. But Nico?”

“Don’t feel too bad,” Angelo drawls. “Manny raised Nico to think that whatever he wanted, he got. That included girls.”

My thumb pauses on my lip. “He raped them?”

“Manny had complained on many occasions about payin’ a few parents hush money to keep their daughters’ traps shut.”

I nod slowly while Alfonso mutters, “Those are just the ones who accepted it. The parents that didn’t? Their daughters were silenced.”

Rage burns in my chest, and my finger twitches with the need to unload a few bullets in Manny’s goddamn head. “So, Marco and Nico were whacked,” I state plainly, needing to push the conversation along before I give into my urges and go looking for Manny this goddamn second. “You put a contract out on Manny the moment you heard he was behind the hit, and no one has gotten close enough to get the job done. We’ve gotten ourselves into several shoot-outs over the past few months. And now that Orazio got one over on his kid, he will consider them even. You want me to clip him?”

Angelo glowers, but I know he’s reserved all his wrath for Manny.

“An enforcer from the Russo family clocked Manny at a rental on the outskirts of town two hours ago,” Alfonso supplies woodenly.

The Russos are a good family, and they’ve stayed loyal to us throughout this war Manny began. If they’re sure of Manny’s presence, then I believe it.

“I want him dead, Ronnie,” Angelo bites through gritted teeth.

“Are you askin’ me or tellin’ me?”

Angelo shoots back his whiskey, hissing through his teeth. When he sets the crystal glass down, he meets my stare.

“I’m tellin’ ya.”

I stub out my cigar, smoke billowing between us, but it does nothing to hide the murderous delight shining within Angelo’s and my eyes.

“Then I’ll take care of it.”