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He squeezed. A pop echoed through the woods, the birds in the nearby area scattering and flying away.
“Got him in the chest.” Giulio stood and brushed off his pants.
We were too far away from the farmhouse to see whether Buscetta was dead or not. I would need to get closer and make sure.
Giulio grabbed his pack and paused. His face was taut, the olive skin flushed. I didn’t want this to be it, but what else could I say? He knew how I felt. And it was clear he’d never forgive me.
He opened his mouth, then shut it. What had he been about to say? Was he willing to give us another chance?
Then he gave a small shake of his stubborn head. “Have a nice life, Alessandro.”
And he started out of the woods.
All I could do was stand and watch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Giulio
Málaga, Spain
Four weeks later
The nightclub pulsed and flashed, the base thumping in my chest. Bodies writhed and swayed on the dance floor, as couples embraced in dark corners. It reminded me of the one person I was desperately trying to forget. Even all this time later I still ached for him.
But I wasn’t on the floor, searching for a distraction. Instead I was in the VIP area above, looking down at the sweaty sea of people.
I lit another cigarette and leaned back. The man across from me, Ilya, worked for Nikolai Kuznetsov, who was currently busy with Theo in Paris. But Nikolai had agreed to take care of my Golubev problem for a large payout.
After I filled Ilya in on all I knew about Golubev’s operation, I asked, “Do I need to worry about someone else trying to step in once he is gone?”
Ilya finished his drink and set the glass on the table. “Is hard to say. I think you have many challengers in the future. Spain is a long way from Italy, yes? Are you ready to fight?”
I looked at Benito. We’d arrived in Spain last week and were quietly getting settled. Organized. Finding storage places, houses. Secret holes and untraceable bank accounts. It was a lot of fucking work and I was exhausted.
But were we ready to fight? Fuck, yes. The challenge of it, the possibility of what could be here, was the only thing keeping me going.
Still, it felt like something was missing.
One of my father’s men—now mine—walked toward us, his phone up to his ear. At the table he leaned down to speak quietly with Benito. My cousin frowned.
“G,” Benito said. “There’s a blond Russian woman at the door asking to see you.”
Che cazzo? I glanced at Ilya. “Yours?”
“No, but maybe she will be?” He rubbed his hands together.”I have not found a woman to take home yet tonight.”
“Send her up,” I told them. “Let’s try to get Ilya laid.”
While we waited I ordered another round of drinks. Then I stared out at the men on the dance floor. Not once had I been tempted to go find someone here and take the edge off. My dick had practically stopped working after Palermo, except for when I fantasized about a certain gray-eyed assassin.
Pathetic.
Our guard led a young woman toward the table. She wore a long fluffy tulle skirt and a t-shirt that said something in Russian. On her feet were a pair of new Converse, and her blond hair was pulled into a high ponytail.
She looked directly at me. “Giulio Ravazzani.”
I cocked my head. “Do we know each other?”
