We hit the steel door.
I pull. He covers. We go through.
We stop.
The casino is a charnel house.
The smoke is so thick it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. The big chandelier is on the floor in three pieces. Two of the green-shaded lamps have been shot out. There’s a woman face down across the bar, her hand still in the ice bin. A man I don’t know is half-collapsed in one of the leather banquettes. The combo’s cellist is sitting in his chair like he’s still playing.
And the shooters are gone.
The shooting stopped twenty seconds before we reached it; professionals are out of a room within ten of their last round. They came in heavy, they hit the targets, they walked out of the emergency door like nobody’s business.
Lorenzo lowers his gun an inch.
“Jesus.”
I move.
I don’t check the bar. I don’t check the banquette. I cross the room in a straight line because I already know where I’m going.
The center table.
Vincenzo is in his chair.
He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t even slid sideways. He’s upright, his head tipped back against the high leather of the seat, his mouth slightly open, his eyes on the ceiling. There are threebloody holes in his chest, very close together, through and through.
But his face is calm.
Whoever did this gave him no time to know it was happening.
I don’t say his name. I don’t say anything. Rage and guilt threaten to flicker out from my pores. A hollow pit opens up in my chest.
“Boss.”
Lorenzo’s voice. Across the room.
“Boss. Over here.”
I turn.
He’s at another table. Twelve feet from where Vincenzo is. He’s crouched, looking down at someone.
I cross to him.
Victor Moreno Sr. is on the floor.
He took it differently. Five rounds, not three. Two through the chest, two through the gut, one that took the side of his head off. He went down hard, and they wanted to make sure he stayed down. The contrast is screaming at me already—Vincenzo got a clean exit, professional, almost respectful. Victor got the message version.
“Fucking hell…”
My teeth grind as I crouch beside Lorenzo.
Casings on the floor. Nine millimeter. I count nine in arm’s reach. There’ll be more. Judging by the spread, there were at least three shooters working the room. Everything went down in under sixty seconds. They knew the layout. They knew the door rhythm.
I look at Vincenzo’s table, then back down at Victor’s body.
“They got them fucking both,” I growl, flames rising.
