I stared numbly at Emilio Pucci's cell, two guards flanking me, waiting for my command. He'd agreed to tell us everything we wanted. The man who had sent his soldiers to die without hesitation now cried at the thought of physical pain. Utterly pathetic but not that uncommon. Many older heads had gotten used to comfort and safety while allowing others to risk lives in their names.
This should have been a moment of triumph. Thanks to Messino, Rizzo and Falco witnessing the confession, the news had already spread, and every family head now knew that the Pucci family's business would soon cease to exist. That also meant I had free rein deciding what to do with the fucker. I could cut him into pieces, and not even his sworn allies could interfere, and if anyone tried to retaliate, we would freely decide on their fate too.
