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Gianni’s fiery gaze finds me again, and I stand up just a little straighter. If he hadn’t once saved me from a life of certain destitution and homelessness, I might have already tried to kill the man. I don’t like being in his debt, and I don’t like his lashings, but to turn on him now would be wrong. Loyalty is key to this whole criminal underworld that we occupy. Without loyalty, everything falls apart. Empire’s crumble, and the life I’ve managed to build for myself disappears into thin air.
Still, as he stares at me with disappointed loathing, I can’t help but twitch my trigger finger. The least I can do is keep my hands in my pockets.
Gianni knows as well as anybody that I’m not to be fucked with too badly. I’ve destroyed nearly everything that’s ever scared me, but, still, two things remain seemingly indestructible, and I’m sure he knows that he’s one of them.
“Ronan,” he bellows.
I step forward, tense as a trigger wire.
“I’m making you personally responsible for Santino Costa.”
That’s all he says. He doesn’t need to utter the threat behind his words. I’m not family, and I’m definitely not Italian. As useful as I am to him, I can be dealt with in a much harsher manner than most.
I step back into my place and try my best to control the sneer desperately trying to take control of my face. I hate that I’ve been put in this spot. I hate that Gianni trusts me enough to risk my entire existence on something so important. I hate that I have no choice in the matter. I hate that I hate this all. I don’t hate my job, but I hate being told how to do it. It’s an internal conflict that’s made me the man I am today, for better or for worse. I have no life outside of the Barone family, and it’s of my own doing. How could I let anyone else control my life? Even if through avenues other than fear and intimidation... I have a hard-enough time letting one person pull my strings—two is more than I can handle, and I know that from experience.
“Dismissed,” Gianni commands, and the room quickly empties. I don’t stick around to be glared at any longer. I’m one of the first soldiers out of the office.
Before I can leave the Barone-owned building altogether, though, Luca tries to stop me—but he’s not his father. I don’t stop for him. I keep walking and let him catch up.
“What’s the plan?” he asks, trying to fix his off-kilter tie.
“You don’t need to worry about it,” I grumble. “I’m going to find Santino, and I’m going to kill him, then I’m going to bring his cold, dead body to the meeting with the Russians. Capiche?”
Luca grins. “I love it when you Irishmen try to use Italian words.”
I bite my tongue. I’m not in the mood for his air of superiority. I storm off; I know he can’t keep up, even if I am in a weakened state. “Hey, where are you going!?” he calls after me.
I don’t need to tell him; I know all too well where I’m going: back to Baker street. It’s about time I go stalking. There’s no doubt in my mind that Santino’s left a trail behind him—he’s not smart enough not to have—and I’m going to follow his slime until I have my hands wrapped around his stringy neck.
I tug at the sleeve of my new leather jacket. I’ve already burned the one I was shot in last night—it was only evidence, after all. The bulky bandage around my left arm feels like an anvil. I curse to myself as I hop in my black range rover and speed back to my place.
Last night, I’d had a long scalding shower before being stitched up, but I can somehow still feel the stick of my blood along my skin. I’m so stupid. What the hell got into me? Santino had fallen right into my trap, but he caught me flat-footed.
I take a sharp angry turn onto the highway and slam an open palm against my steering wheel. The vibration sends a shot of pain through my left arm. Fuck. And I thought I was in bad shape before. Now, I won’t even be able to hit the gym for at least a couple of weeks because of this injury. I’m lucky Santino’s bullet only pierced some muscle. Sure, I lost a lot of blood, but that’s better than losing my life... right?
I take no solace in the fact that I’m still alive. The rubber of my wheels screech against the pavement as I fly into the underground parking lot of my loft.
I fucked up so bad, and it was all her fault.
I try to shake her image from my head, but those big, glistening brown eyes won’t leave me alone. I can still feel the hot touch of her soft fingers on my injured arm—it’s almost worse that the bullet hole. I don’t know exactly how long I’d been unconscious for, but it had been the heat flowing from that woman’s tender hand that had brought me back from the darkness. I don’t know if I should thank her or curse her. I feel like I’ve been branded.
I slam the driver door and my car shakes enough for me to hear the clanging of metal in the backseat. Shit. I forgot to drop off the spoils from my trip to Alonzo’s at the Barone’s family safe. I quickly whip open my backdoor and lift up the black blanket I’m using to cover the jewelry that I stole from the dead man’s apartment. I don’t need the money, but you learn quickly enough that you always make a hit look like a robbery. If the police can excuse every murder that happens in this god-forsaken city on a robbery gone wrong, then everyone leaves happy. We don’t get any heat, and the pigs don’t have to come after us—we both know a fight between the two of us isn’t going to end well for anyone.
I leave the loot hidden in my backseat. I don’t know if I could even carry it all upstairs if I wanted to. I curse myself again for letting that small detail slip from my mind—you always ‘deposit’ your loot into the Barone family ‘bank’; doing otherwise could be seen as a sign of disrespect.
I’ll have to get to it eventually.
I get in my personal elevator and smash the button for the top floor. I’m going straight to the armory. I have three days to
bring Santino’s head to Gianni, or else it will be my head. There’s no time to waste, even if I’m feeling weaker than ever. Last night, the Barone family’s physician had pumped me full of someone else’s blood, to make up for the pints I lost in my gunfight, and I don’t know if it was pig’s blood or what, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. I catch my reflection on the shiny golden walls of my elevator’s door—I look like a ghost. Fitting. I’m a dead man until I can get to Santino.
The doors ding open and I step into the red-brick room. To an ignorant eye, this might look like any other ordinary room, but a single punch to the right brick sends a whole arsenal sliding out of the walls. Snipers, assault rifles, and all sorts of sharp pointy things present themselves to me. I have more weapons than I could ever need. I have so many, in fact, that I probably couldn’t even name them all. All I know for sure is that I could take on a small army from up in here. Hell, I once even had a bazooka when I was younger; it could still be here, for all I know. God, that was stupid... but also so much fun. I’ve since learned that fun is how you get killed in this game. You have to be cold and unfeeling to survive, which is ironic, because it hardly feels like living at all.
I pack a black duffle bag full of fire, and strap enough heat to my own body to blast through a brick wall. My stomach growls but I grind my teeth and savor the pain. I don’t deserve a meal until I at least have a hint of where Santino’s gone. Still, when my cell phone buzzes with a text from Finn, asking about our next move, I tell him to meet me back at the end of Baker street in an hour, and to bring some dinner.
6
Nia
