Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

15. Rush

fifteen

Rush

Abigail ground her teeth to keep from whining out loud. How was it that their every attempt to search out Coughlan and his goons got so immediately upended? She would have been willing to believe they were being sabotaged after three bad starts in a row, if not for the fact that Corey Wells was her personal issue.

Then again, did that mean he couldn’t have somehow been a plant?

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Ryōma asked. His face and his words were aimed toward the beam of what Abigail presumed to be a flashlight. He’d raised his arms partially up and out, demonstrating he wasn’t holding any sort of weapon. Depending on their assailant’s mindset, though, that just made him a bigger target.

It also obscured her. Both from the focused beam of light and the most likely projectiles hiding behind it. Ryōma was taking the attention onto himself because regardless of who this other man was, they almost certainly didn’t know the truth about her. They would be assuming she was a tag-along of some kind.

“I didn’t say,” the speaker they couldn’t see said. “No point, seein’ as you and your girlfriend won’t be needin’ to talk anymore.”

Abigail carefully pulled her arm behind herself, making sure not to obviously shift her stance.

“That seems a little presumptuous,” Ryōma said. “Maybe I like talking. And knowin’ who I’m talking to.”

The male behind the flashlight scoffed, the sound almost grating. “Then I got good news for you, De Salvo dog.” The beam of the light flickered, wavering just slightly, as if he were adjusting his grip. “You’re gonna deliver one last message to your master—and it’s gonna be piping fucking hot.”

Abigail curled her fingers around the grip of her gun as Ryōma twisted in place. She wasn’t entirely sure whether her eardrums burst from the nearby explosion of gunfire before or after Ryōma launched them sideways and down. All she knew was that he rolled them together, the open floor plan suddenly felt too confined, and the beam of light was slow to follow.

But she held her wits, and her weapon. As soon as she was able, she braced a foot beneath herself and aimed her own gun at the figure she could see a little better from her new angle. They needed people alive to talk, so she aimed low between the spindles and pulled the trigger.

Their assailant cried out, a curse blending in with the pain, and his flashlight tumbled over the banister.

Ryōma was on his feet and moving before the flashlight hit the floor. In quick strides he crossed the space and hauled himself up and onto the landing where their unnamed assailant remained. Sounds of a struggle followed, two small thuds punctuating the confrontation Abigail could only partially follow with her eyes. Then, finally, Ryōma called, “Get the lights, baby girl.”

She found the nearest light switch and flooded the main space with artificial light. It was strange to her that the interior had been so dark in the first place, since it was so bright outside. But that was hardly the issue.

A quick, sweeping glance spotted the discarded flashlight on the floor precariously close to her feet and a discarded gun about midway down the outward-facing steps. Then she looked past those items, spotting Ryōma himself straightening from behind a slumped figure she presumed to be their assailant.

Ryōma smirked at her. “You got great fuckin’ aim,” he said. “I’ve gotta tie up his leg, but he’ll hold out. Could you call in, let someone know we got us an Ink Blot in need of questioning?”

The not-so-unconscious male groaned. “Fuck … you.”

Abigail obligingly switched her gun for her new phone, stepping slightly to the side to improve her line of sight as the ringing started. She mostly just wanted to get an eye on Ryōma, to see if he appeared hurt.

Ryōma had already sliced away a portion of the man’s shirt and had set to work using the fabric as a tourniquet.

The line connected, drawing her attention. “I swear,” Mikey said, “if you’ve been derailed again—”

Abigail bit back an inappropriate smile. “This time it might have worked out.”

There was a beat of silence and she thought she heard the nameless assailant hiss in pain.

“ What might have worked out?” Mikey finally asked.

“There was an Ink Blot waiting in the house,” Abigail explained. “For us, specifically, or just whoever was sent, we don’t yet know. I had to shoot him, but it’s not fatal. Ryōma said to tell you he’s in need of questioning.” She’d barely finished speaking before a distinct, poorly muffled snort of laughter reached her ears. It definitely came through the line and Abigail was about as certain as she could be that it hadn’t been Mikey—the sound had been too feminine. “Um….”

Mikey sighed. “We’ll send a car. Have Ryōma get me a shot of his face so I can start digging.” The line clicked before Abigail could do more than open her mouth to respond.

Abigail lifted her gaze up to the figures on the landing. “He said to—”

“Just sent it,” Ryōma said, waving his phone at her and flashing another grin. “I know what I’m doing.” He hauled the limp figure next to him up, over his shoulder, and started down the stairs. It seemed he’d also rendered the male unconscious while she’d been preoccupied .

Abigail gave herself a shake and quickly nudged the flashlight out of his way. “Does Mrs. Mikey listen in often? ‘Cause there was definitely a woman on the line this time.”

Ryōma chuckled. “ Mrs. Mikey is turning out to be quite the busy-body. So yeah, she sits in on his calls pretty often.” He dumped the other male against a wall, away from anything useful. “Though to be fair, all the De Salvo couples are basically glued at the hip.” He straightened, half facing her, and his expression dropped into a scowl as he pulled his phone again from his pocket. His thumb moved across the screen and he said, “There a problem?”

Abigail felt her own lips curve into a frown. How was holding a man hogtied, still bleeding, and standing in a home they’d had to break into not already a problem? It was killing her nerves. She hated to think what an actual problem could be in their minds.

Mikey’s agitated voice came through the speaker of the phone immediately, his tone sharper than it had been a minute earlier. “That motherfucker you just grabbed is the one who delivered my wife to Gustavo Ramires last month. Brandi never got his name, but she recognized his face.”

Abigail’s eyes blew wide. What? Was he saying their unconscious assailant had kidnapped Brandi De Salvo—and gotten away?

Ryōma muttered a curse. “What do you need me to do?”

Mikey blew out a hard breath. “The interrogation still matters. But I’m only giving you a head start. ”

Ryōma lowered the phone on a long exhale, the call apparently done. He met her stare. “Looks like you’re getting a real thorough introduction, sakurasou .”

She wasn’t even sure what to say to that, and in the beat where she attempted to gather a response, her gaze finally zeroed in on a patch of red slowly darkening one of his arms. The arm she hadn’t been able to see from her previous angle. “You’re hurt!”

He blinked at her before turning his head to look down at his own arm. “It’s no big deal.”

Abigail frowned. She caught herself as an angrier-than-necessary protest built in her throat and choked it down, at least enough to contain the decibels. “The hell it isn’t.” He’d been shot because he’d chosen to protect her. She wasn’t an idiot. She pointed to the nearest piece of furniture. “Sit down while I go scrounge up whatever first-aid supplies that asshole kept on-hand.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Ryōma argued. The twitch of his lips belied the point of his words.

She turned and began striding further into the unit. “Sit. Down!” It was bad enough he’d been shot because of her. It was bad enough he’d been dragged into her personal vendetta. It was bad enough her mismanagement of her own situation had put him in a difficult position with his superiors.

I shouldn’t even be thinking like that. Yet she was, and she wasn’t sure when it had happened.

For that matter, since when did she have a vendetta?

Abigail aggressively flicked on the bathroom light and went straight for the medicine cabinet. She’d never thought of herself that way. She’d always thought what she wanted was simple, rational, and straightforward. Fair. But she hadn’t hesitated to pull her gun when she’d recognized Corey Wells in that parking lot. She hadn’t argued with taking him in, and she would probably have shot him there in front of potential witnesses if she couldn’t have taken him with her. That wasn’t very good of her.

Worse, probably, had been the way she’d appreciated Ryōma’s response. His help. His unquestioning understanding. It felt like they were a team. Partners.

The breath hitched in her lungs and Abigail nearly fumbled the small box of off-brand bandages she’d extracted from the cabinet. She’d been lonely since moving to Newark, she could admit that to herself, but she couldn’t afford to think of Ryōma that way. Not when she knew that even if this new, messed up plan went perfectly, she was going to have to disappear when it was over. Whatever this thing was between them … it was temporary. It had to be.

Abby was barely finished wrapping his arm where the bullet had sliced through the skin when their ride showed up. Which was just as well, because their unnamed kidnapper-turned-assailant had started to stir, too, and Ryōma preferred doing his interrogations somewhere less comfortable. They all managed to get the man gagged and loaded, and the crew took off for whichever holding facility Mikey had probably deemed worthy of this particular fool.

The ride itself was tense and silent. Ryōma would rather Cris had come for them, but Cris was likely still busy dealing with the Marchesi cleanup. So he told himself to be grateful that these two at least actually did what they were told, instead of going off-script and forcing his hand.

They got the Ink Blot secured in the designated torture room, wrists and ankles bound by chain, and the two Mikey had sent stepped back. “Mr. De Salvo says you have until sundown to get information from him,” the older of the pair said. “He also said if you kill him, you pay his debt.”

Ryōma grunted. It wasn’t like he wasn’t aware of the De Salvo temper. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The man inclined his head and turned, not sticking around for the rest. Neither he nor his companion spared a single word for Abby. Ryōma supposed that was better than the alternative.

Abby pushed away from the wall where she’d held back, watching without interrupting. “Why do I get the feeling we’re in over our heads?”

Ryōma flashed her a grin. “Because you’re out of your element. Don’t worry, baby girl. I know how to pry without killing a man.” He pulled out his phone and set a timer, to make sure he wasn’t mid-question when Mikey showed up. “We’ve got a few hours to play with. You don’t have to watch if you don’t want, but if you’re really committed to this plan, I’d recommend you stay. Don’t give anyone room to question you.”

Abby’s gaze flicked to the slumped figure on the floor. “I assume I’m not getting to interrogate him first because of his history with the De Salvos?”

“You assume correctly. I’ll try to let you have the next one.”

Her expression shifted, like she was struggling to hide a smile. “I can’t argue that, I guess. I’ll play second.”

Ryōma arched a brow. “Come again?”

She met his stare. “You lead, I’ll support. Do you have special word for that?”

He had no word for that. He’d expected her to have some degree of curiosity, if only to see what she was proverbially up against, but he hadn’t expected her to want to participate. Not in this. “You want to … be a part of this?” He motioned to the Ink Blot. “Like, my assistant?”

Abby shrugged. “This is your interrogation, so in that sense, yes. We need information and you’re calling the shots here. Although I would appreciate it if I could contribute a question or two if I think of them.”

“That’s probably fine.” Or it would be, as soon as his brain rebooted.

She tilted her head slightly when he said nothing else and made no move to start. “Is there a problem?”

Ryōma blinked at her and another grin slowly lifted his lips. “No, baby girl. No problem at all.” If she wanted to play second string to him on this, he would absolutely let her. The request had caught him off-guard, but only really because he struggled to see how it did anything for her. He gave himself a shake and faced their bleary-eyed, semi-conscious companion. “All right, asshole. We’re gonna start with the easy questions. I recommend talking, unless you get off on your own pain.”

Abby stepped up and tugged the gag from his mouth before backing away again. Ryōma’s own, twisted little helper. It might be nice, having another pair of hands.

The Ink Blot groaned, pushed up to a proper sitting position, and spat on the concrete floor. “Fuck you and your bitch. I don’t got shit to tell you.”

Ryōma rolled his eyes and dropped into a crouch to bring himself to eye-level with the man. “Listen, I’ll be real with you. You’re going to die tonight. You laid hands on Michele De Salvo’s woman last month, and he knows we have you, so your time’s up. The only real questions left are whether you get a modicum of mercy in exchange for your cooperation or a whole, heaping crap ton of pain before you go. And if you’ve got a loved one or two you’ve dragged into this shit life? I can’t promise your debt won’t bleed over onto them if you don’t do this smart. Your choice.”

The punk’s dark brown eyes narrowed in visible anger and he scoffed. “That supposed to scare me?” He raised his chained wrists until the chain went taut. “This shit supposed to scare me?” He scoffed again, louder and harder than before. “I don’t got family you can threaten, bastard. You think I don’t know who you are?” His lips curled in visible disdain. “I don’t got no one anymore, thanks to you! So do your fucking worst.”

Interesting. Ryōma rocked onto his heels. “You say that almost like you were targeting me. ”

“You were the one who got that Irish idiot caught yesterday. Wasn’t hard to figure you’d be who they sent to do the digging.” The Ink Blot finally cut his glare in Abby’s direction, just for a second. “Took you fuckin’ long enough, though.”

Ryōma frowned. “Don’t play stupid with me,” he said. “We know the Ink Blots are backed by the Coughlan mob. You may not all be individual besties, but you’re in league together. It’s the same fucking thing on the outside.” He matched the punk’s glare. “Are you trying to tell me you holed up in there to avenge that bastard from yesterday? He mean something to you?”

“Fuck no,” the Ink Blot said, spitting the words and jerking at his chains. He cursed again and dropped back onto the concrete. “Worst thing we ever did was take money from them damn Irish.”

“A little late for that insight,” Ryōma said, keeping his tone bland.

The gangster across from him sneered. “Cezar was the one who pushed for it. Said the Dragon was too fucking comfortable in his den and he’d never see us comin’, not ‘til it was too late. Not if we played it right.”

Ryōma gave the punk a bored stare. “You can’t possibly think you pulled that off.”

This time, the irritated scoff the gangster released seemed as if it were aimed elsewhere. “Tristán fucked the plan up. Overeager dumbass.”

“Uh-huh.” Ryōma stood abruptly, reached out, and took hold of the length of chain attached to the other male’s wrists. “You’re not really giving me anything I can use , though. I already know Tristán Garcia was a fuck-up, and I already know aligning your little gang with the Irish mob was a stupid fucking mistake.” He hauled the chain up and back, forcing the punk to rise onto his knees and extend his arms uncomfortably to the side. “Tell me something I don’t know. What the fuck do I call you, for starters? Why were you coming for me, specifically? What’s Coughlan promised your gang of idiots for your cooperation?”

There were other, more important, questions to be asked. But it was never wise to lead with your critical hand.

The gangster snarled, struggling briefly as if he thought he could break Ryōma’s hold. His glare held a refreshed fire, as if Ryōma’s altered tactic had reinvigorated him. That was fine. That was part of the point. Sometimes the breaks came faster if the victim first got a small sense of energy or motivation. A big rush right before an even bigger crash.

“I don’t gotta give you shit, killer!” the gangster exclaimed, his voice mildly strained.

Ryōma arched a brow.

Abby hummed audibly. “Sounds to me like he’s upset over someone he thinks you’ve killed.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Ryōma dropped the chain, letting the Ink Blot fall back to his ass. “I’m gonna need more info than that, though.”

“Go to Hell.”

Abby stepped up to Ryōma’s side, angled so as to face both of them. “How unoriginal.” She turned her gaze up to Ryōma without twisting her body. “We need to call him something. What about ‘John’?”

Ryōma made no effort to hide his amusement. “John Smith or John Doe?”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” the Ink Blot snapped. “Do I look like a John to you?”

“I don’t think he likes those ideas,” Ryōma said, keeping his gaze on Abby.

She shrugged. “His fault. I’m not going through the trouble of running his prints to see if his actual name pops up in some system somewhere.”

“That is generally the most boring way to learn a person’s secrets,” Ryōma said.

Abby bobbed her head and rolled her wrist in the gangster’s direction in a lazy gesture. “Let’s think about what we do know about John here. If it’s true he was at least trying to target you, and presumably not over the Irish mob guy who was stalking me from the pastry shop, he must have an associate or three with a connection to you. Who was it you said he delivered Brandi De Salvo to before? What happened to that guy?”

Well that was a theory. Particularly since it was the only confirmed time Ryōma had had any interaction, even indirectly, with their John Smith. If her theory was on-point, that would mean the asshole currently at their feet had connections to the top of the Ink Blot food chain. That made this much more interesting. Ryōma moved a hand to his hip as he shifted his weight. “That guy’s very dead,” he replied.

“No fucking shit,” not-John snapped.

Ryōma lifted his lips in a mocking grin as he looked over at the other male. “You sound agitated, John.”

“Stop fucking calling me that!”

“You’ re clearly confused.” Ryōma stretched out a foot, hooked his booted toes under the chains at John’s wrists, and swept his leg out to the side. The motion forced John swiftly to the cold, concrete floor, probably bruising his shoulder from the impact. Ryōma retracted his foot. “I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want to call you, because for the next few hours, I fucking own you. John. So if you want a little leeway, you start answering questions. If you want me to piss you off in every goddamn way imaginable, then by all means, keep blowing smoke.”

John groaned, the chains rattling around him as he shifted in an attempt to right himself.

Ryōma moved and stepped on the chain, just above his hands.

John stilled. His head slowly tipped back, brown eyes wide.

Ryōma clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “I didn’t knock you down just to watch you sit your ass back up, John.”

John’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a hard, visibly angry breath. Seconds passed before he muttered, “I knew we shouldn’t have grabbed that bitch.”

Ryōma arched a brow and lifted his gaze. “Start up a tally. Every time he insults any of the Ladies De Salvo gets a mark.”

“Sure thing,” Abby said. She lifted her phone and set to work.

John scoffed. “Seriously? What do you even care? Not like they’re your whores.”

Ryōma whistled. “Wow. We’re gonna count that as four—one for each. And you, John, are going to learn two lessons.” He lowered himself, careful to keep his weight on the chain, and slid his knife again from the sheath at his leg. He twirled it slowly over John’s widening eyes, letting the overhead fluorescent reflect ominously on the darkened silver. “First, those women are the De Salvo family’s most precious treasures. Ignoring what you just said would be one of the highest forms of disloyalty, so you understand I have to hurt you now.” He paused and pressed the tip of the blade to John’s chest.

John held his breath.

“Second,” Ryōma continued, “I happen to be very close to one of those women.” He pressed a little harder and the shirt split beneath his knife. He let the blade move slowly lower, grazing but not piercing the skin. Drawing out the suspense with minimal damage. “You basically just called my baby sister a whore, John. If it were up to me, I’d slice off your balls and shove them down your throat for that.”

He expected John to remain still, or to double-down on his generic insults. The gangster surprised him by rasping out a single, briefly nonsensical, word. “Rush.”

Ryōma paused, a droplet of blood visible beneath the tip of his knife. “You have no control over the speed with which I’ll cut you, John.”

“No, asshat,” John said. The breathless desperation in his voice belied the crude anger he was aiming for. “My name is Rush . Fucking stop calling me John .”

Across from them, Abby balanced a hand on her hip. “Your street name is Rush?”

Ryōma pushed out a breath. “I’ve heard worse, I guess.”

Rush glared up at him. “Fuck you.” He angled his head as best he could manage. “Both of you.”

“Well, if we’re back to that,” Ryōma quipped with deliberate levity. Before the male beneath him could respond, he pressed his knife into the gangster’s skin and set to carving. Not too deep, of course—Mikey would filet him if he took the fun away. Just deep enough to leave a message that would scar, if by some miracle Rush’s body was ever found.

For all his earlier snark and bravado, Rush made no effort not to scream.