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Giotto nodded. “Yes.”
“How much?”
“…Signora?”
“How much did he pay for you to betray me?”
“Signora, he swore to me they wouldn’t hurt you – they only wanted to take you captive – ”
“Oh, then that’s not betrayal at all,” she said in mock sympathy. Then her voice went back to cold, hard steel. “How much.”
Giotto winced. “A million euros.”
“A million,” she murmured in disgust. “That’s all your honor was worth to you.”
Giotto seemed to sense that something had shifted for the worse.
“Signora – I could be a double agent for you – I could tell him that – ”
The Widow raised the gun and fired.
BANG!
Giotto’s throat erupted in red, and the back of his neck blew out in a gout of crimson.
He stared at her, his eyes wide in horror as he tried to breathe – a series of gurgling, choking sounds –
And he slowly went limp as he drowned in his own blood.
The Widow’s expression never changed the entire time. She just watched, dispassionate and detached, as he died.
When the light had gone out of his eyes and he’d slumped over, supported only by the two men on either side of him, the old woman held out her gun to the side.
The same bodyguard who had given it to her took it back and holstered it.
“Remove this piece of garbage from my sight,” she ordered.
A bodyguard bent down to grab one of the mercenaries –
“Take Giotto, but leave them for now,” she snapped. “I want to talk to Signor Rosolini alone.”
“What about our men?” another suit asked.
“They’re dead,” she said curtly. “They’ll still be here in ten minutes. Now go.”
No one questioned the wisdom of leaving her alone with me.
They just hauled away Giotto’s body, his legs sliding limply behind him, and dragged him out of the room.
Then it was just me… the Widow… and a dozen dead bodies lying all around us.
7
As soon as her men were gone, the Widow turned to me. “Well, Signor Rosolini, it appears I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For not believing you about your uncle. Had I listened to you from the beginning, we might have avoided this…”
