“Let's see what we have here.”

The bag was yanked off his head and Bobby found himself looking into the blackest eyes he'd ever seen. They belonged to a handsome man who must have been twice Bobby's age, jet black hair greying around the temples. He was older, but he wasn't old. Not at fucking all. He was maybe forty five. There were a few wrinkles around his eyes. Not laugh lines. He didn't look like he laughed much.

His face seemed like it had been carved by DaVinci. Hard slabs of cheeks, a patrician nose. It was plain to see that the blood of Roman conquerors ran through this man's veins. There was no doubting his heritage whatsoever.

“Hello, Bobby.” He spoke with a faint Sicilian purr. “My name is Angelo Vitali.”

Bobby wasn't the kind to scare easy. He'd had all sorts pulled on him. Guns, knives, whatever. They barely made his pulse rise. The second Angelo Vitali said his name, Bobby felt the fear of God. It was as if he had been stabbed straight through to his core with a shaft of pure ice. He stopped breathing for a second as every part of him froze.

Angelo Vitali was legend. Manhattan based. Legit on the surface, but had tendrils running into every game in town. Most guys with Angelo's kind of money got out of the game and enjoyed a legal life. Word was, Vitali liked it too much to ever give it up. Word was, he had tastes. The kind of tastes that turned men into sashimi.

“I'm uhm, Bobby Cornoli.” Bobby's voice broke and rasped as he tried to put on his usual front and failed. It was hard to sound tough while tied to a shitty old wood chair.

“No, you're not,” Angelo said, wiping his hands on a rag. “You're Robert Wachowski. Son of two Polish immigrants. Born in Bed-Stuy before it got hip. Dropped out of high school at fifteen to start running a little gang of your own. Been doing that the last seven years. Think you're a tough guy.”

Angelo leaned back against the workbench, each of his massive hands fisting the edge. He was wearing an expensive as hell Italian suit, perfectly tailored to his every hard line. The watch on his wrist was probably worth more than most people's houses. But he looked comfortable here, in this dark warehouse, with a bunch of tools that had never seen construction work of any kind.

“You're a little boy, Bobby. And you're way out of your depth. Have been for a while. Your problem is, now you're in my way. Are you going to get out of my way, Bobby? Or am I going to have to move you?”

Bobby swallowed. He was afraid, but he wasn't going to let the fear rule him. This was a test to see if he could be intimidated. He'd done this to guys himself. This trick wasn't going to work on him though. If Angelo wanted him dead, he'd already be dead. That meant Angelo wanted something.

“Depends what you want.”

“Depends,” Angelo repeated, smirking. “Oh. Not much, Bobby. I want you to shut down.”

“Shut down what?”

“Everything.”

Bobby frowned. He almost forgot he was tied to the chair. The fear was turning into something else. Anger.

“No. Fucking. Way,” he enunciated clearly.

“Now why are you swearing, Bobby?” Angelo cocked his head to the side. “I've treated you with respect, haven't I?”

“I'm just letting you know,” Bobby said. “I worked hard for my business. I'm not going away just because I get tied up.”

“Ah,” Angelo said, his lips spreading in a dark, handsome smile. “You need more encouragement. I’m sure I can find something to persuade you.”

“Gonna kneecap me? Pull my teeth out? I don't give a fuck.” Bobby was starting to find his nerve again now. Angelo had rattled him, but Bobby never stayed rattled for long.

A snort emanated from the refined man. “You've been watching too many movies, Bobby. Staying up past your bed time. Getting involved in things that don't concern you.” He turned, his handsome head in profile as his long fingers danced over the items Bobby couldn't quite see. A moment or two later, he picked up a long thin piece of what looked like plastic rod.

Bobby shrugged in his bonds. “Okay, you wanna measure something?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Angelo smiled. “You don't know what this is, do you, boy?” He played the rod between his fingers. “This is a Lexan cane. Much tougher than bamboo. Suitable for longer sessions.”

A cane. Angelo Vitali was standing over him with a fucking cane in his hand. Bobby swallowed. The twitching in his pants told him there was going to be more than one hard rod in the room. He just hoped like hell Angelo didn't notice it.

“You don't look worried,” Angelo purred. “Which means you've either never felt one of these, or you like it.”

Angelo was living up to his reputation for being dangerously perceptive. Bobby was going to have to throw him off.

“I just don't care,” he lied. “You can threaten me with whatever the fuck you want. I'm going to keep hustling.”

Vitali smiled almost pityingly. “You know, you're young enough to be my son,” he said, tapping the end of the rod against his open palm. “I think Daddy needs to teach his boy a lesson.”

Bobby had heard the stories. Angelo Vitali had ways of making grown men beg and cry. If Bobby had done either one of those things it would have been an embarrassment to his name, but as Angelo purred that silken threat down at him, Bobby did the one thing a wanna be mob boss should absolutely never do in a tense stand off with a predatory mafia don.

He blushed.