Chapter 77 Rocco
I walked out of the hospital room, shoving aside the sharp, unyielding pain in my side. The nurse had warned me not to leave, that I was still healing, still recovering.
I didn't care.
Pain was temporary. Pain was nothing.
But the anger boiling inside me? That wasn't going anywhere until I'd made Vincent pay.
The hallway was still, illuminated by florescent lights that cast creepy shadows along the tile. My men blocked every exit route, their eyes darting towards me as I stepped out. They didn't ask questions. They knew I was going there.
I walked purposefully, the weight of my decision pressing against my shoulders. I must return to Fiorella, protect her while she sleeps. But at this instant, my passion was stronger than my sense.
Vincent awaited.
And I was ready, more than willing to encounter him.
The journey to the warehouse was silent, the atmosphere heavy with foreboding. My men were mute. They would not dare provoke me.
I relived the crash in my head, over and over, a never-ending cycle that I couldn't turn off. The headlights blindingly appearing out of nowhere. The sound of warped metal screaming. The sickening thump of Fiorella's body against the seat.
The blood.
Her blood.
My fists clenched tightly around each other, my fingernails burying themselves in my palms.
Vincent had been involved in all of this.
And now, he was going to know what it felt like to get in my way.
The warehouse was beyond the city limits, out of the way, at the mercy of whoever wasn't us.
As soon as I entered, I was greeted by the metallic scent of blood. A good sign.
My men were already getting started.
Vincent was bound to a metal chair in the centre of the room, his head down, his shirt red with blood. A rivulet of blood flowed from a gash above his eye, running down his face in dark, syrupy lines.
Pathetic.
He didn't even flinch when I approached, his breathing coming in rough gasps.
"Get him up," I told them.
One of my guys didn't think twice, grabbing a bucket of ice water and pouring it straight in Vincent's face.
He sat bolt upright, gasping as the cold brought him to. He blinked wildly, his eyes darting around the room before finally coming to rest on me.
And when they did, the colour drained from his face.
"Rocco," he croaked out, his voice barely above a whisper.
I grinned, crouching down so we were eye-to-eye. "Miss me?"
Vincent's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, his body visibly shaking. He tried to keep up a brave front, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him.
"I—" he started to say, but I held up a hand.
"Don't bother speaking," I told him smoothly. "I'm not interested in hearing your excuses."
I stood up from my seat, rolling up my sleeves to my elbows. "I'm here to teach you a lesson."
Vincent's breathing picked up. "I-I didn't—
I landed the first punch before he could even finish.
His head snapped to the side, a sharp grunt bubbling out of his lips as blood sprayed across the floor.
I didn't stop.
A single punch turned into two. Then three. Then dozens.
His nose cracked under the force of my fist. His ribs groaned with each blow. He struggled for air, but I did not back down.
This wasn't revenge.
This was justice.
For Fiorella.
For every drop of blood she had lost because of him and his father.
By the time I finally backed off, my knuckles were sore, the surface roughed with his blood. Vincent was barely conscious, his head slumped, his breathing weak.
I breathed out, shaking my hands.
Then I held his chin firm, forcing him to look at me.
"Where’s your father?“ I breathed, my voice ominously low. "And if you lie to me, I'll know."
Vincent shook, his lips trembling.
Good.
Because I wasn't done with him yet.
Vincent gasped shallowly, his breaths like broken glass in his chest. His head was down, blood dripping from his mouth onto the concrete floor at his feet. He was weakened—just hanging on. But I wasn't done yet.
Not by a long shot.
I grabbed his hair, yanking his head back so he had no choice but to meet my eyes. He winced, a pained groan leaving his lips.
“Let’s try this again.” My voice was calm, almost casual. “Where is your father?”
Vincent’s swollen lips pressed together. He wasn’t ready to break.
Yet.
I smirked, rolling my shoulders, feeling the tension coil in my muscles. “You know, I’ve always been good at improvising.”
I stepped back and took off my suit jacket, rolling up my sleeves slowly, deliberately.
Vincent flinched at the sound of my leather gloves snapping shut around my fingers.
I transferred my hand to the table beside me, where a neat array of tools glinted under the dim overhead light.
My fingers hovered over a few before settling on a pair of pliers. Simple. Efficient.
I looked at Vincent, letting the metal catch the light as I twirled it in my palm.
"Last chance." My voice dropped. "Tell me what I need to know."
Vincent clamped his jaws together, his breathing shaky.
I huffed, shaking my head. "Okay. Fine. Have it your way."
I didn't hesitate.
I grasped his left hand and spread his fingers apart. He struggled weakly, but he was no match for me. His skin was slick with sweat, his pulse erratic in my grip.
He knew what was coming.
"Your father wanted Fiorella dead," I whispered, closing the pliers over his pinky finger. "Now you'll understand what it's like to lose something you can't get back."
Then, with a swift, brutal squeeze
A sickening crunch.
Vincent's scream tore from his throat, savage and guttural, and echoed off the walls of the warehouse.
Blood bubbled from the jagged gash, pooling at his feet. His body convulsed, his breath coming in jagged, wheezing gasps.
I recoiled, watching him twist.
"That," I said, wiping my gloves on a cloth, "was just a taste."
Vincent was trembling, his chest rising and falling in jagged, uneven motions. Tears were mixed with the blood smeared across his face.
I knelt beside him, my knees wrapped in my elbows. "Now," I said quietly, near to begging, "are you going to talk?"
Vincent wheezed, his good hand curling into a fist. His body was collapsing inward, the pain devouring him.
But he still hadn't answered me.
I sighed, resuming my standing posture. "You're stronger than I credited you with." I gestured to one of my men. "Hand me the knife."
A serrated, long blade was handed to me, the weight solid and comfortable. I raised an eyebrow at Vincent, watching him closely.
His breath caught.
Good.
I slid the point of the knife over his forearm lightly, just enough for him to flinch.
Then I pressed down.
Vincent shrieked again, writhing as the blade sliced through his skin. Blood erupted instantaneously, dark and viscous, flowing down his arm in rivulets.
I hunched over him, my voice too low. "This is me being patient."
His breathing stopped. His body convulsed. He was so close.
So close to breaking.
I pushed the blade a fraction deeper. "Where. Is. Your. Father?"
A raw sob. "P-Please—"
I rotated the blade a tiny amount.
Vincent yelled, his entire body rigid. "Okay! Okay! I'll talk!"
I stayed stock still. I slowly pulled out the knife.
Vincent was gasping, his head lowered, his body shaking spasmodically. His entire body was slick with sweat and blood, his fingers twitching with the lingering pain.
"Go on," I demanded, folding my arms.
Vincent swallowed, his voice hoarse. "H-He's in his cabin. Bouncing between safe houses. He—he knew you'd find me."
I narrowed my eyes. "And?"
Vincent hesitated. His lips trembled. "And he's planning something big."
I breathed deep, rolling my neck. That was all I needed to hear.
I turned to my men. "Keep him alive. For now."
Vincent sagged with relief—until I added, "But keep him awake."
His face sagged in despair.
I smiled, grabbing my jacket and slinging it over my shoulder.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shots.