𝒎𝒂𝒇𝒊𝒂

𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒐: 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆

Maverick's POV

I ran my hand through my hair for what felt like the millionth time today and scoffed under my breath. I was on my way to the warehouse Giuseppe was being held at. The thought of that piece of shit made my blood boil. I drove in complete silence, imagining the different ways I would torture that son of a bitch.

I grabbed the pack of cigarettes I placed in the sun visor before taking one out and lighting it. I let the nicotine dull the insatiable rage that had welled up inside me—I couldn't act irrationally. I had to remain calm if I wanted to get answers out of this piece of shit.

The sound of my phone ringing brought me out of my thoughts.

"What?"

"That's no way to speak to your father, Gio."

I took a deep breathe to restrain myself from throwing my phone out of the window before responding. "Yes, father?"

"That's more like it."

I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white and took a long drag from my cigarette. He continued.

"I heard you ran into some trouble with Cristfano's men."

"Is that all you called to tell me?"

"Non farmi fare qualcosa di avventato, Maverick." (Don't make me do something rash, Maverick.)

I refrained from talking, knowing everything he said was true. He only ever called me by my first name when he was serious.

"Anyway, I want you to find out what they know about Cristifano and his affairs in America."

"Is that all?"

"Well, since you brought it up, tell Alayah and your mother I said hello," he said followed by a sadistic laugh. The word angry couldn't describe how I felt. I was irate. He had the nerve to laugh about what he did to Alayah and my mom. Any man that's willing to hit a woman isn't a man at all—he's nothing but a bitch.

I felt flush. A wave of anger overtook me as the air around me began to practically vibrate with heat. I felt my ears grow hot and my knuckles get impossibly whiter as the grip I had on my steering wheel became ironlike. I remained quiet as my father's laughter filled the car. I grabbed another cigarette, willing the nicotine to subdue my anger but to no avail. I was mad. I was really mad.

"You sick bastard!"

"Stop your fucking whining, Giovanni, and lighten the fuck up. You're soft just like your goddamn mother."

My anger preceded me. "Fuck you! You're nothing but a bitch! If you ever lay your hands on my mom or Alayah again, so help me God, I'll make sure you die by my hand you twisted fuck!"

With that, I hung up and threw my phone harshly against the passenger seat. I lit my third cigarette of the day and took a much-needed drag before exhaling the smoke. I continued to cruise down the road, trying to not let my thoughts consume me.

_________________________

I finally made it to the warehouse. I threw my car in park and hopped out. I strode into the warehouse with only one thing on my mind: killing Giuseppe. I had killed people before but never in my life had I felt such passion for wanting to kill someone—well aside from my father.

The warehouse held shelves upon shelves of guns my father was selling. There were a lot more people working in the warehouse than I thought. They were unpacking guns from crates and repackaging them as discreetly as possible as to not arouse questions. I don't know why that is seeing as almost every police precinct in Illinois is on my father's payroll.