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I thought I was protecting her by paying off Canvani. I thought I was protecting her by killing my father.
It turns out I killed the wrong person.
It was Zachary’s father I should have killed in the first place. Dario fucking Canvani.
But one thing I learned a long time ago is you can’t change the past. You can only move forward. Which is why I’m not going to stop until I find Dario and put a bullet through his head, the same way I did his son.
“Well?”
Elio looks up at me with a bored expression. “Have you heard my phone go off?”
“I don’t know if you keep that shit on silent. You’re staring at it like it’s going to suck your dick or something.”
He shakes his head, and goes back to doing whatever he’s doing on his phone.
It grates on my nerves.
It does in fact ding a moment later, and though I haven’t stopped staring at him, I stare even harder. He’s good at acting like he doesn’t notice. After a moment, he turns his phone toward me.
“Got an address.”
I stand and move to the door. I hear him following me.
As I round the corner, Antonio and Rocco spot me and move after me.
“Got an address,” I tell them. I glance over my shoulder. Elio wiggles his phone at me.
“Just sent it. And I’m coming with you.”
“Take your own car. You’re not coming in mine.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he snaps.
Staying with my brother for the last month has not been a walk in the park. Seems we like each other even less when we’re in close quarters. Such a shame, because I was starting to like him. I guess that’s just from a distance.
Elio’s guys meet him at his car. I’m already driving down his driveway before he’s in his.
I share the address with Antonio, who puts it into the GPS. I look it up as we drive and find an old three-story Victorian. The white paint is peeling, shrubbery is all dead. The driveway is a patch of dirt with tread marks, and the weeds in the yard are taller than me. The photo was taken a few years ago, but I doubt it’s been upgraded.
I pull up the sale records on my phone, thankful they’re all public. The house belongs to Dario, which is interesting. Didn’t think he’d have a piece of shit like this lying around, but when I see the name of the person he got it from, it makes sense.
Greta Canvani. Mother, most likely. Maybe grandmother. Maybe the house he grew up in. Guess I’ll have to torch it for the fuck of it.
It’s an average-sized house on an average street. If I were a better man, I’d care about causing a scene or scaring the neighbors, but I’m not, so I don’t.
We turn onto the street an hour later, and that’s where Antonio parks.
Elio pulls up behind me, and we get out at the same time. I go up to the front door and, of course, it’s locked. Just another door to kick in. Only, I don’t want to give away that we’re here. Sure, he may have seen the cars, but maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s not here at all.
“Stay here. I’m going around the back,” I tell Elio. He nods, and I hurry around the house. The door I find is locked too. I use my elbow to bust the window, reach in to unlock it, and open the door. With my gun drawn, I check around corners and make my way to the front to let Elio and the other guys in. There’s no one on the bottom floor, but our guys wait down here in case someone shows. Elio and I head upstairs. Every door up here is open, except one.
Dumbass.
When we get to it, it’s one of the old-school heavy knobs that don’t lock. I turn it and push it open, finding Dario sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, smoking a cigar.
“I knew you’d come,” he says, his eyes darting toward me. “Thought you’d have been here sooner.”
“Wanted to make you sweat,” I say as me and my brother step into the room. A quick glance tells me he doesn’t have a weapon on him. Not one that’s easily accessible. He’d be dead before he got his hands on anything hidden in his pants.
