Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

10. The Informant

ten

The Informant

Peter didn’t make the smart choice. Abigail didn’t need that spelled out for her when the man she’d thought to be her perpetually fearful informant opted to spit on Ryōma’s clean shirt. It was a small, openly defiant act that a truly frightened individual would never have chosen. Not with a gun still pressed into their body.

Ryōma had grunted, flipped the gun around, and struck Peter hard enough to daze him. He had proceeded to tuck his gun away, haul Peter up, and adjust course down the off-shoot hall. “I’d let you stay up here,” he called as he walked, “ but if he has buddies waitin’ for him, that might not be safe. I need you where I can see you, at least until Cris gets here.”

Peter groaned, still mostly conscious.

Abigail pulled herself together and trailed after them. “I didn’t think this house even had a basement.” Not that she’d explored. She also didn’t particularly like the idea of going down into this one or seeing what might be done in this situation.

“It’s a little less comfortable,” he said as he rested his thumb on a doorknob. Something beeped, indicating a hidden electronic lock, and he quickly pulled the door open before resecuring his grip on the other male.

Abigail drew a preparatory breath and pushed herself forward. She knew she couldn’t save Peter from whatever was about to happen, and she also knew she had a choice to make. A choice that could make his immediate experience much worse. Her first instinct was to keep her mouth tightly shut. She wasn’t supposed to reveal the identity of her informants, after all. That information was generally so secure she didn’t even report the details to her superior. But this situation was atypical in every way, and the pain still throbbing in her face made her hesitate. If nothing else, he had definitively violated the conditions of his agreement. Assaulting his handler was indisputably against the rules.

Her hand lifted to her cheek as her mind raced. The room around them lit up, Ryōma striding away from the wall where she presumed the switch was located and depositing Peter on the floor. Her eyes widened. The room was mostly open space, with a wall of shelves and one large set of cabinets. The shelves contained items she was a little afraid to get close enough to identify, particularly in light of the thing that most concerned her.

Ryōma had dropped Peter next to a thick chain and already begun winding that chain around Peter’s torso, pinning Peter’s arms to his sides. He wrapped it only twice before snapping the catch at the end over the extended line to lock it into place. The chain itself trailed back, anchored into the stone wall.

Peter grunted. “Fuck, man, I’m one of you!”

“Are you?” Ryōma asked. “The spit on my shirt says otherwise. The lie in my memories says otherwise. The bruise on my woman’s face says otherwise.”

Peter scoffed. “That ain’t your woman, you know. That bitch is fuckin’ FBI.”

Ryōma crouched down in front of him, his back mostly to her position. “Real interesting that you know that, Marchesi.”

Abigail scowled. “Ryōma, if I may?” She saw Peter’s eyes widen over Ryōma’s shoulder and found she didn’t care. She should have, probably, but the feeling never flared.

Ryōma stood and approached her calmly, his gaze snagging on her surely already darkening bruise. His lips thinned, but he lifted his eyes to hers and managed a faint smile. “Want me to bring a chair down here for you?”

She shook her head. “You said something, before he burst in, about honesty.” She wasn’t just going to have to leave the bureau after this, she was going to have to go into hiding. But Ryōma inclined his head with recognition, so she continued anyway. She’d chosen her side in this war, apparently. “I can’t explain anything about his presence here right now, but there is one thing you should know.” Her hand came up to rub at her cheek again without conscious direction. “Peter Marchesi was my informant.”

Ryōma’s eyes went wide.

“You lyin’—”

“Of course, I’m no longer sure how much of what he told me was true or a deception,” she said, cutting a glare in Peter’s direction. “Seeing as the personality he’s displaying here is entirely different from the one he portrayed in front of me. But we’ve spoken several times over the past few months. Peter here is how I knew about you .”

Ryōma huffed. “Well. That changes things.” He brushed her hand from her cheek, stroked his thumb gently across the line of her jaw, and pressed his lips to her forehead. Then he stepped back and turned again to face Peter. “You really fucked up, Marchesi. Talkin’ to the feds? Now I can’t even put you out of your misery when we’re done. Boss is gonna want that honor himself.” He rolled his neck as Peter paled. “And you are gonna talk. Startin’ right now.”

Peter’s eyes darted between them, eventually settling on Ryōma. “Y-you’re gonna take the word of a fed?”

“ This fed, yeah.” Ryōma crouched down again and set to work removing Peter’s sneakers. When Peter belatedly thought to try and kick him, Ryōma caught the swinging foot with a single hand, as if he’d been waiting for the move all along. One by one, the sneakers were tossed aside, well out of reach, and Peter’s feet were left vulnerable in their worn socks. “Now,” Ryōma said, “I’ll ask my questions exactly once. You really want to answer the first time, and smartass responses don’t count.” His voice dropped to a cold tone that felt like it could slice through flesh all on its own. “Question one. Who do you really work for?”

Abigail watched Peter’s ears go red and his nostrils flare with a rush of obvious anger. He twisted restlessly, uselessly, in his chains.

“I work for the fucking Dragon, you know?”

Ryōma exhaled, reached out, and curled two fingers around one of Peter’s sock-covered toes. “Lies get punished, Marchesi. Obviously, you’ve betrayed Mr. De Salvo, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Peter let out a short-lived wail, his eyes blowing wide with pain. He sucked in deep, rapid breaths.

Ryōma slid his fingers down to another toe, gripping through the sock enough to pinch the toe in a clear message even Abigail could understand. She felt her own toes curl instinctively inside the safe confines of her shoes.

“F-fine!” Peter cried, wheezing. “Fuck, fine. Yes, I talked to the goddamn feds, okay?” His lips curled and he cut a glare at her. “I fuckin’ hate it here. Thought they could get me out.” His glare intensified. “But the bitch expected me to hand her the case on a silver fuckin’ platter, you know? Never went anywhere.”

Abigail sucked in a breath. “That isn’t even—”

Peter suddenly shrieked, louder and longer than before, body jerking and his head falling back as his legs twitched.

“So to recap,” Ryōma said, projecting his voice to be heard over Peter’s gasping wails, “you’ve told me what I already know, twice, and made a point to insult my woman. In my presence.”

“M-my toes, man!” Peter’s voice was strained, almost reminiscent of the tone he often used in their conversations. Almost. Something about this one, now that she had the comparison, sounded more natural. “Goddamn crazy yakuza. You’re breaking all my fucking toes!”

Abigail frowned.

Ryōma seemed to think Peter’s words were funny, because he let out a low, dangerous chuckle. “Your math is shit, Marchesi. Three out of ten isn’t even a proper third.” He paused just long enough for Peter to make a strangled gasping noise, then said, “Now. You said you wanted out. Why not just run?”

Abigail shuffled sideways to keep Peter in view, as he had fallen too far back to see over Ryōma’s shoulders. The adjusted view made it easier to see that Ryōma’s fingers had lowered several toes on Peter’s foot as well. No blood was visible, so whatever pain he’d obviously inflicted, he’d done it without breaking the skin.

Peter scoffed. “Run where ? Every time I turn around, I’m hearin’ rumor Boss has new friends in new places. Fuckin’ Dublin now? Really?”

Dublin? Had Peter just said the De Salvo family had influence in Ireland ? Was it possible that had something to do with their war with the semi-local Irish mob? Was it possible that didn’t ?

“Interesting,” Ryōma said slowly. “That’s the argument I expected. Not the example. Why’re the Irish so heavy on your mind, Marchesi? ”

Peter’s mouth fell open, but seconds passed before he tried to speak again. “They’re on all our minds, ain’t they?” The words were barely off his tongue before he let out another cry of pain. His arms strained momentarily against the chains around him and he huffed hard, chest rising with deep, desperate breaths. “ Fuck !”

“Get smart, or stupid, with me again,” Ryōma said, “and we’ll be crossing the halfway point. Don’t think I’ll stop then. You’ve got ten toes, and I’ll break every fuckin’ one of ‘em.”

“So that’s where we are,” Cristiano said from behind them.

Abigail jumped in place, nearly tripping on the hem of her damn pants again as she jerked to the side. “Shit!”

“Fuck, no,” Peter said, quieter. “No, no, no. This ain’t how it was supposed to go! You fuckin’ bitch, this is—” His tirade cut off in another, sharper shriek of pain.

“Whoops,” Ryōma said. “Pinky toes are so fragile. You probably shouldn’t piss me off when I’m this close to you, Marchesi.”

Abigail didn’t know who to watch. Peter was a concerning combination of morbidly fascinating and already boring. Cristiano was as nerve-racking as she remembered. And Ryōma was, well, Ryōma. She’d had a hard time looking away from him since the first time she’d spotted him in person.

Cristiano glanced her way, his gaze dropping to the bruise on her face for a single beat. Then he stepped up until he was standing just beyond Ryōma’s shoulder and folded his arms over his broad chest. “I assume Marchesi here is responsible for your girlfriend’s new look. What else? ”

Peter started rambling immediately. “Y-you don’t understand—”

“Either say something useful or shut up for a minute, Marchesi,” Ryōma said sharply. He moved his hand from the set of broken toes to flick a warning at Peter’s exposed ankle.

Peter clamped his lips shut, looking too pale.

Ryōma gestured to the male in front of him. “We found one of our rats. Or maybe our only rat. I’m starting to lean that way, personally.”

Abigail watched one of Cristiano’s brows climb up his forehead. She debated explaining, since it involved her, but she wasn’t wholly comfortable inserting herself with Cristiano there. It changed the dynamic.

“Explain to me how we have less than two,” Cristiano said.

“Marchesi here is Abby’s informant.”

Both of Cristiano’s brows shot up, then he turned his gaze back to her, his expression becoming inquisitive. Still intimidating, but less actively threatening.

Abigail nodded. “It’s true.” Though she supposed her word wouldn’t mean much to the man.

“He corroborated it himself, too,” Ryōma said. “As for the ‘less than two’ part, I’m thinkin’ he’s been ratting us out to all sides. The feds when he got his sloppy ass caught, and the Irish, probably on purpose. That last part’s a little more of a still-in-development theory.”

Cristiano’s expression fell into a dark frown.

“I—” Peter swallowed hard. “I never said that.”

“No,” Ryōma said. “You went to Dublin , out of all the references you could’ve made when you talked about running. Don’t you have family in Missouri?”

Voice unreadable, Cristiano said, “His sister moved out to St. Louis just a couple years ago with her new husband. I was even kind enough to do a drive-by and check out her neighborhood for our friend here after her move, for his peace of mind.”

“Right,” Ryōma said as if he’d just become enlightened, “I remember that.” He angled his head to look up at Cristiano. “Wouldn’t you think he’d use St. Louis as his reference, then?”

Abigail tried not to gape at their mockingly casual conversation. She recognized that the conversation itself was a bizarrely cruel form of torture, but it was the content that shocked her. Not only were they basically confirming they had reach overseas, but they were also confirming they had influence in St. Louis, Missouri, too. With the heavy implication of more. Her head spun. This is so much bigger than I realized.

Her eyes darted back to Peter, who was still pale and staring at the men in front of him as though they would massacre him the instant he blinked. She ought to have felt bad for him. She ought to have spoken up about what she was witnessing. For the life of her, though, all she could think was that she didn’t understand why he hadn’t told her any of this. If what Cristiano had just said was true—and she didn’t know why it wouldn’t be—then Peter obviously knew, if not the true extent of the De Salvo reach, then at least more of it. Yet he’d never said a word. He’d let her believe they merely controlled Newark, with possible influence trickling to outlying communities .

She could only think of one explanation. “You didn’t really want out,” she said, her lips moving before she realized the words had formed on her tongue. Her eyes narrowed and she let herself glare at the lying, manipulative bastard who’d tried playing her into his war. “You wanted an insurance policy in case playing the De Salvos against the Coughlans got to be too hot for you.” It clicked as she spoke and anger surged inside her, at him and at herself. “That’s the real reason you ‘forgot’ to ask for immunity, the reason you begged for protection instead.”

Peter stared at her, widened eyes sinking into a heated glare that brought a rush of color back to his face. His lips curled in a seething inhale. “I can’t fuckin’ stand you, you—”

Ryōma’s boot landed on his throat, shoving him to the ground and silencing him in a single motion. “You want to shut the fuck up now. Not because I might kill you, but because I’m not allowed to, which means I’ll have to find alternative punishments.” He reached into a pocket, pulled out a curved switchblade, and flicked it open. Then he removed his boot and knelt down, letting one knee rest on Peter’s shoulder as he rested the tip of his blade on Peter’s lower lip in a taunting threat. “And I promise you, Marchesi. I’ve got lots of ideas.”

“Try to control yourself,” Cristiano said with something that sounded like a sigh. “Dante’s going to want him when he hears about this. The less damage you do, the better.” He tilted his head to the side. “That said…” He walked around, pulled his own knife from a pocket, and lowered to a knee. A moment later he had buried it into Peter’s knee, effectively crippling what might otherwise have been Peter’s good leg .

Peter let out a bone-curdling scream, his back coming off the concrete and his broken-toed foot kicking helplessly. Blood puddled up and over as Cristiano pulled his blade free.

Cristiano wiped off the knife on Peter’s pantleg in a hauntingly calm manner. “I liked Tony,” he said. Then he stood and put the knife away.

Abigail clamped her lips shut, forcing her eyes away from the growing spot of blood.

Ryōma also stood. “Shit. Tony’s dead?”

Cristiano nodded. “Fucker must’ve snuck up on him. His throat was slit.”

Ryōma tipped his head back and cursed again.

“Did you figure out how he knew where we were holding her?” Cristiano asked, jerking a thumb needlessly in Abigail’s direction.

The question sharpened her focus, and steadied her stomach.

Ryōma also frowned. “No. But he did say he wanted to take us to floor twenty-five.”

Cristiano nodded, lips dipping into another scowl. “I’ll work on that, then. I dropped your clothes change in the hall. Never got to the food. We’ll have to ditch this place as soon as everyone’s ready, so get moving.”

Abigail blinked. “Um…”

Ryōma rounded Peter’s stunned body, gave Cristiano a tap on the arm as if he were tapping his friend in, and walked up to her. “C’mon, baby girl. Let’s get you something that fits a little better while we have the chance. Dinner’s gonna have to wait a bit longer. ”

Abigail didn’t offer any resistance when Ryōma led her toward the stairs. She wasn’t sure why the mention of their supposed destination mattered—she’d written it off as a lie at this point—but the overall turn of events was a lot to process. Almost as much as her shocking response to it all.

She kept her hand firmly curled around his as she followed him up the stairs, only frowned when he insisted on standing in front of her while he checked the hall as if he no longer trusted the space, and continued to walk with him after he scooped up a large duffle with his free hand. They made their way quietly and quickly to the bedroom, where he pressed the door shut and threw the lock.

Abigail pulled in a breath, searching for the right words to break the silence.

The duffle went flying onto the mattress and Ryōma lifted her purse over her head and off her shoulders with concerning ease.

She turned in order to meet his gaze. “Hey, I—”

“Can’t strip with that on,” he said, voice gruff. He had her on her butt on the bed a moment later and a foot in his lap, his fingers deftly working the laces of her shoes. “Or these.”

Strange indignation flared inside her. “Why am I stripping? I’m perfectly covered!” Awkwardly, maybe, but nonetheless decently. “This is the absolute worst time for sex, you know.”

He chuckled as her first shoe hit the ground. “Is sex all you can think about, Abby?”

“You did not—”

He flashed her a grin while his fingers worked on the second shoe, loosening it faster than the first. It was set beside the previous and he pushed her legs wide enough that he could lean over her, bringing himself into her space. “Baby girl, if we had the time, you know I’d take advantage of getting you naked right now.” His hands snaked under the hem of her oversized shirt. “It might even kill me not to at least see you orgasm while your pretty body’s so exposed. But we don’t just not have time, it’s not safe here anymore.” His calloused fingers teased her skin as he swept the shirt up, over her head and off with ease.

The fabric fluttered to the floor somewhere behind him as if by magic, because she would swear his hands never left her skin. Only at the sight of his eyes heating with desire did she finally remember the other issue.

“ Fuck , I almost forgot.” Ryōma leaned in and slid his tongue over one of her nipples, his hands gripping her waist tightly. “You’re not wearing anything under this baggy ensemble.”

Abigail gasped, at the husky tone of his voice and the rough way he sucked her neglected areola into his mouth for a brief, delirious moment. Her fingers twitched against the comforter.

He broke away, pulled her to her feet, and shoved her pants to the floor. She didn’t even realize he’d removed the gun until she saw it on the bed. Then he swatted her butt in a startlingly playful way and said, “Put your underwear on while I dig out something easier for you to move around in. Don’t take too long, baby girl. We really can’t linger.”

Shit. He’s serious. She obligingly started toward the bathroom, where she’d left her underthings after giving them an awkward wash in hot water, but paused on the threshold. “Ryōma … I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot, but I really had no idea Peter was playing us—playing me—like that. I wish I knew more of his real plan to offer you.”

He stepped away from the duffle, only half unzipped, and strode up to her. He ghosted his hands over her jaw, careful not to apply pressure to her bruise, and buried his fingers in her hair as he tipped her head back and up to hold his stare as he stood inside her personal space. His hands both framed and supported her head, the scent of him immediately surrounding her. “You don’t owe me, or anyone, an apology. He lied to you. He used you. He hurt you. I’d fucking kill him for that if I could. But you spoke up, and because you did, we were able to figure out at least one of our rat problems. That’s helpful, baby girl.” Ryōma bent down and brushed his lips over hers. “Now get some panties on before I forget myself and fuck you right here against this door.”