The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,171

damn about right now is finding that Irish son of a bitch who murdered my brother so he can pay for what he did.” He leaned down so they were eye to eye. “And I want to know where he is.”

“You think I know?” Carmine asked through his teeth. “We were trying to negotiate with Agosto to—”

“You know where he’d go, Battaglia. He just murdered a couple of my men, and I’m going to make him pay for that. Where would he go?”

“I don’t know. I was with you when—”

“Maybe you need some motivation, huh?” Salvatore kept his gaze fixed on Carmine as he pocketed his pistol and then held out his uninjured hand. “Joey.” Carmine’s heart quickened as one of the hulking men put a crowbar in the outstretched hand. Eyes never leaving Carmine’s, Salvatore growled, “I’m only going to ask one more time, Venetian. Where is he?”

Carmine glared back at him, but said nothing.

Salvatore tapped the side of Carmine’s knee with the crowbar. “Still don’t want to talk?”

Carmine refused to let his nerves show. Sweat slid down the back of his neck. He wasn’t going to break, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to what Salvatore planned to do with that crowbar. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How would I know, Salvatore? How?” Carmine shrugged as much as he could like this. “I was looking for him.”

“Then tell me where he would go, Battaglia?” Salvatore was dangerously deranged now. Beyond rational. Beyond reason. “Because you seemed awfully attached to him down at the docks that night. Seemed like you gave a damn about him, didn’t you?”

Carmine ground his teeth together, pretending not to notice the cold drops sliding from his hair down the back of his shirt.

“You went to some awfully big lengths for a crew of men working for you,” Salvatore said, low and menacing. “So I think you know more about them than you’re letting on.” He jabbed Carmine’s chest with the crowbar. “Tell me how to find him. Now.”

Carmine narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know, Salvatore.”

Salvatore’s eyes flashed with fury. “Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance to talk.” With that, he wound back and swung the crowbar—

Into the side of James’s knee.

Carmine winced as the priest cried out in pain and surprise.

Carmine stared at James. Then he looked up at Salvatore, who was still holding the crowbar and grinning like a maniac. “He’s a priest.”

“Then give me a reason not to,” Salvatore demanded. “Either you tell me how to find Danny, or…” He swung the crowbar again, driving another cry out of James.

Carmine flinched away. He could handle beatings of his own, but he wasn’t so sure his Catholic soul could cope with letting a man of the cloth be tortured on his behalf. The guards winced too, but of course, they did nothing.

“You ready to talk, Venetian?” Salvatore demanded. “Or should I keep going?”

The only thing Carmine was ready to do was be sick. But what could he say? He didn’t have the answer Salvatore wanted. Which, he wondered now, might have been the point—Salvatore wanted them to know how helpless they were. How little they could really do to change their fate. Pleading for his life or anyone else’s wasn’t the kind of thing an underboss wanted to be seen doing, but for God’s sake, he wasn’t going to just quietly watch a man beat a priest to death.

What do I do? I can’t tell him what I don’t know, but I can’t just—

“Carmine.” James turned to him, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth where his cut lip had torn open again. “Stay strong. Don’t you dare—oof.” He doubled over as much as his bindings allowed, groaning in pain from the boot he’d just taken to the gut. He wheezed as he muttered something in Irish. It could’ve been a prayer or something profane for all Carmine knew.

“You can stop this,” Salvatore growled. “Just tell me where to find the Irishman.” Then he hit James again.

Carmine squeezed his eyes shut. No, he couldn’t stop this. He didn’t have the answer, and he didn’t want to give Salvatore the satisfaction of seeing him break. At the same time, he couldn’t let James keep suffering on his behalf.

“Still don’t want to talk?” Salvatore singsonged. “Maybe this will help.” The crowbar clanged on the floor. As Carmine opened his eyes again, Salvatore shoved his gun into the priest’s mouth.

James squeezed his eyes shut. His Adam’s apple jumped, and he was