Gabriel wanted to stew in his own anger, drink himself into a blackout. He wanted to avenge a man he’d just met. He didn’t want to celebrate a damn thing—not even the engagement of Teddy and Sydney—but he did need to see his family. If anyone would understand his pain, it would be them.
He fished out Dr. Laskin’s pocket watch, flipped it open, and examined it. Aside from the photo of the dead man’s family, three small diamonds had been added below the roman numerals one, three, and seven. In his kitchen, Gabriel held his hand over the trash bin, but he couldn’t let the timepiece go.
Keep it, for the old man’s sake.
With a heavy heart, he climbed the stairs, walked into his bedroom, and opened his dresser drawer. Gabriel owned several high-end luxury watches he housed in a case. After placing Laskin’s into one of the empty compartments, he closed the case.
In his bathroom, he turned on the shower faucet before eyeing himself in the mirror. Laskin’s dried blood remained on his hands, his face, his overcoat. A painful reminder that he’d failed.
A good man had died and Gabriel couldn’t save him.
He stripped down, stepped into the hot spray. The water pooled red at his feet before swirling down the drain. The blood washed off, but he couldn’t rinse away the anger. He wore it like a turtle wears its shell. It was the only emotion he could relate to, the one emotion that felt familiar, the one that guided most of his choices.
I am fucked up.
He dried his hair, dressed in a black shirt, black pants, black shoe boots. Before leaving, he added bullets to his CANiK mag, slid the gun into the shoulder holster, and shrugged into his jacket.
Thirty minutes later, he pulled into Santini Ristorante, located in the heart of Old Town, Alexandria. The parking lot was full, so he drove around back, parking his limited-edition black Ferrari SF90 Spider in the only available spot.
As he made his way toward the front of the building, movement caught his eye.
Four Bratva—thugs with the Russian mafia—came at him, the fist of one rocketing toward his face. Gabriel jumped back, yanked his CANiK from its holster and started firing.
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
One dropped, a second aimed his pistol and fired.
BANG-BANG-BANG!
Gabriel was struck in the shoulder and in the leg.
“Motherfucker!” he screamed as the three men scattered into the parking lot.
Gabriel lay on the ground, blood oozing from his wounds, his body writhing in pain.
Get up.
He didn’t move.
You’re a dead man if you don’t go. Now!
The Bratva were hollering in Russian. Car doors slammed shut, an engine roared to life.
They’re gonna run me over.
Pushing through the pain, Gabriel stood. The discomfort in his shoulder was bearable, the searing pain in his leg had him seeing stars. Dragging his leg, he limped-ran to the front door. The car whizzed by. Gabriel opened fire—BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG—the bullets piercing the side windows as it sped out of the parking lot.
Gabriel yanked open the front door, the wind gust snapping it out of his hand and sending it banging against the building. He dragged himself inside. Every table, every booth was filled. Partygoers turned.
All eyes on him… the chatter ceased.
Scanning the room, Gabriel found his family seated at the head table. He locked eyes with Greystone, then Sydney Austin, before he homed in on Teddy.
“I got a problem,” he said, before collapsing on the cold, hard restaurant floor.
Fighting to stay conscious, he watched as his three brothers—and his cousin Carrera Santini—jumped into action.
“Are you hit?” Greystone asked.
