Zip.
My shot goes straight through the rider’s skull. He slumps off his bike as it comes to a stuttering stop a few yards away.
“Nicely done,” Teo says in my ear.
I grimace slightly, finally taking note of the seared flesh beneath my ripped suit. Thankfully, nothing seems to be broken, but the friction burn will take an annoying amount of time to heal.
Wincing, I remind myself that it would have been far worse had Teo not warned me. Not for the first time, I thank whatever gods are still out there on my side for bringing Teo Vitale into my life.
“It’s not like Alessandro to mess up,” I say as I approach the downed Super Duke KTM 1290. I let out an impressed whistle that my enemies would invest so much in taking out little old me.
“Permission to give him an intolerable amount of shit for this, boss?”
“Granted.” It would be more effective than whatever punishment I could devise anyway. “I didn’t realize Alessandro couldn’t count to fucking three.”
But despite his failings today, the self-proclaimed “stealth master” had found other ways to ensure he made himself invaluable to the Guild. I’m unsure if I want to know how he secured the intel for this job.
I kick the body of the dead goon away from the bike—Cartel, if the markings on his neck are any indicator. Clearly, the Tunnel Eaters didn’t want us getting our hands on their lead informant.
“I’m heading to intercept the target alone,” I announce as I mount the bike, not waiting for Teo to try to talk me out of it. It roars to life beneath me within seconds, and I take off toward the rendezvous point.
It’s only a few minutes away, but every second that passes only makes the window of opportunity that much smaller. Even as I pull up to the pier, I can see the telltale outline of a speedboat on the horizon, careening toward my target.
The man on the pier watches his incoming escape vessel fervently. He either doesn’t hear my approach, or chooses not to turn around as I close in.
“Apologies. Traffic in Brooklyn is awful this time of the night.”
My target whirls around in alarm, and my heart sinks.
Carmine Bellini.
We knew it had to be someone from my father’s inner circle, but Bellini had never seemed like the feeding-intel-to-the-enemy type. He was a wallflower at best, and a cowering idiot at worst. But I suppose that’s accountants for you.
Perhaps since my father’s “retirement”, he thought leadership had gone soft enough for him to get away with playing his own games.
“Mister Moretti…Rocco,” he stammers.
But I cut him off before he can start feverishly begging for his life. “I’m looking for the man responsible for leaking the Guild’smovements to the Cartel. You haven’t seen him anywhere, have you?”
“Please,” he begs. “It wasn’t me.”
I step closer, brushing off the debris from my suit as I stalk my prey.
“How was it my father used to deal with traitors like you?” I ponder, noting the ashen look of fear on Bellini’s face at the mention of the previous don. “A slit throat in a sleazy motel bathroom three states away?”
“Wrists,” Bellini whispers his correction, paling even further.
I don’t hide my smirk as I wave at the approaching speedboat. Whoever was driving the thing had at least enough common sense to stop the boat when he noticed the red laser of Alessandro’s sniper rifle hovering over their chest.
There’s a second of silence before the motor kicks in again, and he begins to turn tail completely.
Bellini watches the boat leave in utter despair, his body shaking with the effort of staying on his feet. “Please, I didn’t do this!”
“Ever since assuming my father’s title, I’ve wanted to make a statement,” I gesture at him casually. “About how things will be run from now on.”
“I…I had nothing to do with this!”
I ignore him. “For that reason, I’m not going to kill you. My father always was a trigger-happy psychopath.”
