The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,104

Liam. Stay strong!

The wise guy shoved Liam’s face closer to the bloody mess that had once been Francis. “Tell me who you work for. Tell me now! Or I’ll do to every last one of your boys what we did to him. You hear me? We can take it nice and slow, too. Make sure they feel everything. And when we’re done with them, we’ll do it to you.”

Liam whimpered, screwing his eyes shut as blood trickled down his scraped chin.

“Let him go!” Peter demanded, but a punch silenced him and sent him to his knees. Bernard crouched beside him, partially shielding him.

The wise guy glanced at Peter and the rest of the crew, all of whom watched in silent horror. Then he hauled Liam to his feet and, gripping him by the throat, snarled, “I suggest you talk. Now.”

Liam ground out, “No!”

The Italian sighed with frustration. He gestured at one of his men and nodded sharply at the crew. The bigger wise guy looked over all the lads, then seized Tommy and yanked him forward with a startled grunt.

The man in charge grabbed Liam’s hair and jerked his head back, and he forced him to watch as Tommy took a vicious punch to the gut. With a grunt, Tommy dropped, but his knee had barely touched the floor before he was again hauled upright, and the huge fist connected with his face this time. Tommy made it all the way to his knees, and he wavered badly, blood pouring from his nose as he sputtered and coughed.

“Tell us who you work for,” the Italian snarled at Liam, “or you can all watch him join your buddy.” He gestured sharply at Francis, who was inches from Liam.

“Stop!” Liam pleaded. “Don’t hurt him! Don’t—”

A kick to Tommy’s chest sent him slamming back into the wall, his head hitting with a crack that made the entire crew wince. He made a painful sound and slumped to one side, eyes unfocused. The big wise guy reached for him, hauled him to his feet, and—

“Carmine Battaglia!” The name tumbled off Liam’s trembling lips, and Danny bit down on a curse. “We work for Carmine Battaglia.”

The Italian stiffened. “The Venetian? Is that right?”

“Yes,” Liam sobbed.

Apparently satisfied with the answer, the Italian nodded at his wise guy, who let Tommy drop to the floor again.

“All right, then.” The Italian rose, dragging Liam upright with him. “Smart boy.” He shoved Liam toward the crew—Danny and Peter caught him as best they could with their hands bound before he fell—and gestured for his men to follow him out. The door slammed, and just like that, the crew was alone with Francis’s body, a moaning and semiconscious Tommy, and a trembling, sobbing Liam.

“I’m sorry.” Tears streamed down Liam’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I… I couldn’t…”

Danny couldn’t put his arm around the young lad, so he clumsily took his wrist instead. “It ain’t your fault.”

“But I told him. I told him who we worked for. I’m so sorry, Danny.”

Danny forced back the lump in his throat. “It’s not your fault.”

“But I—”

“It ain’t your fault, lad,” Danny insisted.

The room was still and silent except for the sound of Liam crying against Danny’s shoulder. There was a time when they’d have punched his arm and told him to be a man for God’s sake. He shouldn’t be sobbing like a distraught little girl.

But no one chided him this night. Not with Francis lying dead in front of them, Giulia probably dead, Tommy half-unconscious, and the rest of their fates uncertain. Danny couldn’t even blame him for breaking. With the threat of bullets in the heads of his friends and brother or of beatings like what had killed Francis, Danny probably would’ve given up Carmine’s name too. None of them were used to this kind of fear. This kind of violence.

Liam had just begun to pull himself together when the door banged open again, startling all of them. The big Italians came in and dragged Francis out, leaving a smear of blood on the dirty floor, and Danny winced as he looked away. The man was dead. Couldn’t they show his body a little respect?

The door didn’t close. Instead, the Italian who’d questioned them strode in, and he grabbed Liam by the arm. “You’re coming with me.”

“What?” Liam tried to dig in his heels, but he was nowhere near strong enough. “No!”

“Leave him here!” Bernard lunged, trying to get in between the Italian and Liam, but a pistol to his face made him back