struts around town, thinking he can pull one over on me?”
Angelo slowly raised his eyes to meet the belligerent gaze of his brother. “Logan’s murderer did not go free,” he said quietly.
Enzo lunged forward, then sprung back, recoiling as his chains restrained him. “You caught him? You got Logan’s killer?”
Angelo had no choice but to avert his eyes, sickened to be the one to deliver the news. With palpable waves of fury and anticipation coming through the metal grating, Angelo could wait no longer. “It was Carlo.”
A stunned silence blanketed the cage. Enzo had endured some horrendous incidents in his lifetime, but even he succumbed to shocked stupor upon hearing Angelo’s confession. Was he telling the truth? He wouldn’t lie about this, would he? When Enzo could finally speak again, his voice was controlled. “Your son…killed my son? Carlo killed my boy?”
Angelo nodded, still not meeting Enzo’s eyes.
“Look at me, you fuck.”
Angelo obeyed his older brother, finding Enzo seething now, the control in his voice long gone.
“Your son Carlo—the reason I’ve been locked up in this shithole for twenty-two years—he m-m-murdered my son.”
Gulping, Angelo confirmed, “Yes.”
“ Why?”
The one-word question was so vehement, so forceful, that Angelo found himself flinching, despite the protective cage.
“I—I’m not sure. He was always jealous of Logan—you know that.” Angelo sighed loudly, defeated. “There was something wrong with Carlo from the start. I…” his voice dropped off “…I didn’t raise him so good.”
Enzo shook his head disgustedly. “You think just because I saved Carlo once, I won’t retaliate this time? This is my son’s life we’re talking about, Ange. You better fucking hope you can protect that little sniveling bastard—”
“He’s already dead,” Angelo interrupted.
“Carlo’s dead?” Enzo asked, his eyes narrowing. “Did you kill him?”
Angelo’s eyes widened. He could never kill his own son! His flesh and blood! His cheeks colored, remembering how he’d detested the reminders of Carlo’s screw-ups, how many times he’d wished his son was gone. Now Carlo was gone, and Angelo felt no reprieve. All that was left was remorse.
Finally Angelo answered. “It wasn’t me who killed him. It was…Grant.”
Enzo’s jaw went slack, and his face whitened. He remembered Grant on his first day at Gurnee: dressed in prison blues, his defiant bravado completely failing to hide his fear at facing his father.
Then he flashed back to those big, sky-blue eyes framed by a chubby little face, looking up at him through glassy tears. Half-drunk, Enzo had towered unsteadily over the boy with a folded belt in his hand. Grant pleaded in a small, strained voice, Please, Dad. Please, no more. I’ll be good. I promise.
Enzo shuddered.
“Do the cops know?”
Angelo nodded.
“Why isn’t Grant back inside then?”
“It was self-defense. Carlo came after a couple of girls, and Grant intervened. They, uh, apparently wrestled for the gun, and it went off. Carlo got shot in the chest.”
This didn’t sound like his younger son at all. This didn’t sound like behavior the fucking pansy Joe Madsen would approve of. “Did Grant—did he know Carlo killed Logan?”
Angelo nodded guiltily. Despite himself, Enzo felt pride blooming in his chest. His son, formerly an utter waste, had exacted revenge for Logan’s death. Grant had taken care of business more expertly than Enzo’s own men, swiftly seeking justice while neatly keeping himself out of prison. Enzo was impressed.
“You give Grant a message from me,” Enzo ordered, and Angelo listened intently. “You tell him I want to see him. I need to talk to him. And if you so much as touch him for what he did to Carlo…”
“I already told Joe Madsen I wouldn’t retaliate.”
Enzo’s face flushed a crimson red. “Who the fuck cares about Joe Madsen? You promise me you won’t touch my son,
Angelo slowly raised his eyes to meet the belligerent gaze of his brother. “Logan’s murderer did not go free,” he said quietly.
Enzo lunged forward, then sprung back, recoiling as his chains restrained him. “You caught him? You got Logan’s killer?”
Angelo had no choice but to avert his eyes, sickened to be the one to deliver the news. With palpable waves of fury and anticipation coming through the metal grating, Angelo could wait no longer. “It was Carlo.”
A stunned silence blanketed the cage. Enzo had endured some horrendous incidents in his lifetime, but even he succumbed to shocked stupor upon hearing Angelo’s confession. Was he telling the truth? He wouldn’t lie about this, would he? When Enzo could finally speak again, his voice was controlled. “Your son…killed my son? Carlo killed my boy?”
Angelo nodded, still not meeting Enzo’s eyes.
“Look at me, you fuck.”
Angelo obeyed his older brother, finding Enzo seething now, the control in his voice long gone.
“Your son Carlo—the reason I’ve been locked up in this shithole for twenty-two years—he m-m-murdered my son.”
Gulping, Angelo confirmed, “Yes.”
“ Why?”
The one-word question was so vehement, so forceful, that Angelo found himself flinching, despite the protective cage.
“I—I’m not sure. He was always jealous of Logan—you know that.” Angelo sighed loudly, defeated. “There was something wrong with Carlo from the start. I…” his voice dropped off “…I didn’t raise him so good.”
Enzo shook his head disgustedly. “You think just because I saved Carlo once, I won’t retaliate this time? This is my son’s life we’re talking about, Ange. You better fucking hope you can protect that little sniveling bastard—”
“He’s already dead,” Angelo interrupted.
“Carlo’s dead?” Enzo asked, his eyes narrowing. “Did you kill him?”
Angelo’s eyes widened. He could never kill his own son! His flesh and blood! His cheeks colored, remembering how he’d detested the reminders of Carlo’s screw-ups, how many times he’d wished his son was gone. Now Carlo was gone, and Angelo felt no reprieve. All that was left was remorse.
Finally Angelo answered. “It wasn’t me who killed him. It was…Grant.”
Enzo’s jaw went slack, and his face whitened. He remembered Grant on his first day at Gurnee: dressed in prison blues, his defiant bravado completely failing to hide his fear at facing his father.
Then he flashed back to those big, sky-blue eyes framed by a chubby little face, looking up at him through glassy tears. Half-drunk, Enzo had towered unsteadily over the boy with a folded belt in his hand. Grant pleaded in a small, strained voice, Please, Dad. Please, no more. I’ll be good. I promise.
Enzo shuddered.
“Do the cops know?”
Angelo nodded.
“Why isn’t Grant back inside then?”
“It was self-defense. Carlo came after a couple of girls, and Grant intervened. They, uh, apparently wrestled for the gun, and it went off. Carlo got shot in the chest.”
This didn’t sound like his younger son at all. This didn’t sound like behavior the fucking pansy Joe Madsen would approve of. “Did Grant—did he know Carlo killed Logan?”
Angelo nodded guiltily. Despite himself, Enzo felt pride blooming in his chest. His son, formerly an utter waste, had exacted revenge for Logan’s death. Grant had taken care of business more expertly than Enzo’s own men, swiftly seeking justice while neatly keeping himself out of prison. Enzo was impressed.
“You give Grant a message from me,” Enzo ordered, and Angelo listened intently. “You tell him I want to see him. I need to talk to him. And if you so much as touch him for what he did to Carlo…”
“I already told Joe Madsen I wouldn’t retaliate.”
Enzo’s face flushed a crimson red. “Who the fuck cares about Joe Madsen? You promise me you won’t touch my son,
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