Page 130 of Thin Lives

Calisto didn’t even hesitate. He cocked back the hammer and pulled the trigger, not even flinching when the bullet tore through Sandra’s face, sending blood and brain spraying before she fell to the hardwood floor with a dull thump.

The gun she had been trying to pull on him clinked out of her slackened hand to the floor.

Calisto passed it by as he went in search of that noise.

Affonso was here.

He had to be.

“Affonso!” Calisto shouted loud enough for it to ring through the halls.

Calisto wasn’t here to hide. He wanted Affonso to know he was there, and coming for him.

Keeping his gun up high, Calisto aimed straight ahead, in case Affonso got any bright fucking ideas. Behind the thick apartment door he was leaving behind, he could still hear the fire alarms wailing, and it was an impossible sound to miss. People would be up and out of the building quickly.

It would also mask the sound of gunfire.

Calisto had a decent view of the penthouse ahead of him, given it was mostly an open concept space beyond that first hallway entrance. The bottom level looked empty of life except for the flickering television in the great room. His attention, however, was drawn to the man’s jacket and the two glasses of bourbon resting on the coffee table.

Another thump from up above Calisto’s head somewhere sent him moving a little faster toward the small, spiraling metal staircase. He took the steps two at a time, knowing he was making enough fucking noise to wake anybody up. The upstairs was not as open as the downstairs, he found. A hallway led straight down to what looked to be a bedroom at the very end. But in between, there were several other rooms.

All the doors were closed.

“Fuck,” Calisto hissed under his breath.

He highly suspected Affonso was not in that bedroom, but the asshole was probably hiding out in another one of the rooms with a gun aimed straight at a door, waiting for Calisto to open it up. He was not a fool, and neither was Affonso.

Calisto figured he had one of two options. He could carefully check a few doors, and play it like a game of Russian Roulette. Or, he could force a reaction out of Affonso and take another bullet out of his clip that should have been meant for the old Don.

He chose the second option.

Calisto raised his gun and fired right into the ceiling.

Sure enough, probably out of fear and nothing more, Affonso reacted with his own bullets. Two spit out of the third door down on the left, and then shattering glass followed.

“Merda cazzo,” he heard Affonso cuss.

Something else was in the man’s tone, too. His Italian words had come out slurred and sloppy.

Affonso was drunk.

This news didn’t surprise Calisto in the least. Affonso’s drinking had always been an issue, but one the man managed to keep under some kind of control. Although, over the last year or more, his drinking had dramatically increased depending on his stress level.

Calisto surely didn’t feel bad for the man. It would make things a hell of a lot easier. A drunk man was a man that was not on his game.

Quickly making his way down to the door, Calisto stepped to the side of it, out of range of being shot should Affonso pull that shit again, grabbed the door handle, and spun it fast, throwing the door wide.

“Fucking bastard!”

More bullets flew, embedding themselves into the wall opposite of the opened door, and not anywhere near Calisto.

Then, he heard it.

The telltale … click, click, click.

The distinctive snap a trigger made when pulled and a clip ran out of bullets.

Signed, sealed, and delivered.