Page 43 of A Bride for the Mafia King

The girls are huddled together now, shielding their ears, eyes wide with terror. One of Nico’s men peels off to lead them to safety.

I don’t stop to help. I have one target. And he is in my sight. The Don tries to slip away through a side corridor.

Coward, always the rat scrambling for his hole when the fire gets too close.

I break into a sprint, dodging crates and cages, glass shattering at my back as a bullet flies past. He hears my footfalls closing in on him and glances over his shoulder—his eyes meet mine—and I see it.

The fear.

He recognizes me. That recognition turns into panic as he fumbles with the side door’s latch.

Not tonight.

I cut left, intercepting him before he can get through. He skids to a stop, breath ragged, suit soaked in sweat and blood that’s not his. A pistol in his hand.

He aims. But I shoot first. The bullet punches into his shoulder, spinning him around. He screams, dropping the gun.

“Going somewhere?” I snarl, advancing on him.

He stumbles back, using the wall for support, dragging himself toward another exit like some pathetic animal crawling for its den. I let him.

For a moment.

Then I shoot him again, this time in the knee.

He screams as the bullet tears through his kneecap. Going down hard, clawing at the concrete, cursing in thick rasp Italian. I stalk closer, boots crunching over broken glass and shell casings. My gun raises, but I don’t fire.

Not yet.

He collapses, blood spilling across the floor, his screams echoing off the metal beams above. I take my time walking to him. Every step calculated. He’s on his back, one leg useless, one arm trembling as he tries to lift himself.

“You really thought I wouldn’t come for you?” I ask, my voice low and vicious. “That you could keep selling these girls, keep hiding behind your seat, and the world would just keep looking away?”

With a pained voice he snarls back, eyes wild. “This is none of your business!”

I slam the butt of my pistol into his jaw. Hard. He chokes on his own spit, blood spilling to the floor beside him.

“It is absolutely my business,” I growl. “The sex trade is done in Chicago. And so are you.”

He back pedals again, dragging himself away from where I crouch over him, breath wheezing. There’s piss soaking into the concrete beneath him. His mouth works soundlessly.

I stand slowly, taking a step, my boot comes down slowly right on the ruined knee. He howls as I raise my gun again, aiming at his skull.

“Your mistake,” I say, “was thinking my wife was prey. My mistake was letting you live this long.”

His eyes widen. I don’t wait another second. The bullet hits him clean between the eyes and his body drops like a rag doll.

Chapter Fifteen

Tolya

The Don’s Warehouse

Istare down at the man who once ruled a family, thinking he was untouchable.

He wasn’t.

He just hadn’t met the right monster.