Given to the Mafia Bosses: A MFM Bad Boy Mafia Menage Romance by West Harper

Author:West, Harper [West, Harper]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Published: 2019-04-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Ronan

I was worried about him—Lorenzo—and I knew he'd say something stupid like not to worry about it, but hell, I couldn't help it.

I was worried.

He looked more exhausted than usual, and he was already into his drink while Busco was set up in that deranged-looking electric chair. He was pacing the floor between his drink and Busco, tipping back great gulps of it before returning to the frightened and half-starved man strapped into the chair.

“You know you should talk,” he warned. “Or else we have to hit you with some shit.”

Busco shook his head. “It ain't me. I promise, I swear, this ain't me, and I had nothing to do with nothing."

“That's a double negative.”

He slapped the switch on the other side of the room, sending a few volts down through the wires and into Busco's arms. I could smell burned flesh. Nauseous, I took a step back away from the fumes while retaining my bull-like demeanor. I was worried about Lorenzo, but I didn't need him worrying about me.

Fuck that.

Lorenzo turned it off just as quickly as he had flipped it on and walked back to the chair. He reached in his breast pocket for his silver cigarette case and withdrew one of his favorite cloves. When he lit it, the smell of vanilla mixed with burned flesh and hair, wafting around the room.

I held my breath. “Should I get the kit?”

“No,” Lorenzo snapped. “I'll ask this one more time: who do you work for?”

“Nobody! I don't work for nobody but you!”

He slapped Busco and blew smoke into his face, drawing dangerously close. “Who do you work for?”

“You! You're the boss!”

Slap. “Do you know how many souls have passed through this chair?”

Busco shook his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, and it looked like he might start crying either from the pressure or from the smoke.

Or maybe both.

"One-hundred and eighty-three, exactly," Lorenzo replied to his own question matter-of-factly. "Those insane individuals were fried right in this chair in a New York state prison is 1922.”

“B-boss, let me just explain--”

Lorenzo slapped Busco again, silencing the quivering man. “Petty thieves, criminals, pedophiles, murderers—they all got charred right here where you sit.”

Busco's eyes were wide. There was a glimmer of fear in there, a spark I had never really seen in the man before. It was like the words Lorenzo spoke were lighting him from within along with the charges of electricity. He'd already been shocked five times. I wasn't sure what the actual limit of charges the human body could take.

And I wasn't sure if I had the stomach to find out. “Boss.”

Lorenzo didn't turn but responded, “Yes?”

“I got to go check upstairs. Security rounds, Darby, our girl—do you want me to bring you anything back?”

He straightened up and puffed on his clove, barely turning to face me. He looked like a different person all of a sudden—a monster. It was rare for me to even think such a thing. I'd never betray my own brother with such a thought, but it came to me as suddenly as a goddamn bullet from an enemy.

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