Top floor.
The bathroom door’s at the end of the hall. Steam’s seeping out from under it, water running on the other side.
He’s in there. Taking a fuckingshower.
Heat moves up the back of my throat. I take the gun off my hip. Set it down on the side table.
Quick is wrong. Quick is too merciful.
I pull the knife from inside my jacket and open the door.
The bathroom is massive. Marble. Gold fixtures. A shower stall thick with steam. And there, in the corner, on the toilet, trousers around his ankles, scrolling through his phone?—
Victor Moreno Jr.
Bandaged nose. Silk robe. He looks up and his eyes widen momentarily before he catches himself.
“Raffaele…” His voice trembles ever so slightly.Good.He should be fucking scared.“You’re alive. I had my doubts. I assume the warehouse worked out. I left you a present there—the Conti heir, on a plate. All I was going to ask in return was a small accommodation regarding the inheritance. Through the young lady. Surely you can see?—“
I move.
Three strides. Hand at his throat. I yank him off the toilet—the trousers trip him, and he goes down hard onto the marble. The phone skids across the floor.
“Wait—“
I drop on him. Knee on his sternum.
“You killed Vincenzo.”
“I can?—“
“You set up Nico. You bought my men. You sent a crew to my house. You took her.”
“She was leverage—I wasn’t going to?—“
“You were going to put your hands on her.”
His mouth opens. Closes.
“That’s the fucking line, Victor.”
It doesn’t go fast. Every hit is for something specific. The first is Vincenzo. The second is Tomas. The third is the four men on our front lawn. The fourth is the casino. The fifth is the will. The rest are forher.
When the screaming stops, I sit back on my heels. He’s dead. His face is barely recognizable, but just enough.
I pull the long knife from the floor. Not for me. Not for the rage—that spent itself five minutes ago. This is the thing the families have to see. A man becomes don of both families by walking into a room and putting the head of his rival on the table. Vincenzo taught me that when I was twenty-three.
I do the work.
When it’s done, I stand. The head in my left hand, the knife in my right, both dripping onto white marble.
Before I can stand up, I hear a small sound at the door. Instinct spins me around, knife drawn, ready to kill again.
But it’s her.
Bea. Pale. Hair undone. Red wrists. A cut at her forehead that’s going to scar.
She’s standing in the doorway, looking at me.
