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He walked forward, three of his men flanking him. Everyone was on edge. One wrong move and this would turn into a firefight that I did not want.
“Giovanni Guerra,” he said, stopping a few feet away from me.
“Partick, thank you for meeting with me.”
His head tilted to the side, gaze sweeping over me. “Well, Roberto Donato’s hand made for a rather compelling invitation.” He peered at the warehouse, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Did you know he killed my nephew’s wife?”
“No, I didn’t.” But given the long-standing feud between the mob and The Outfit, and their apparent disregard for women, it wasn’t surprising.
“Just a few months ago. Left her baby motherless and Liam heartbroken.” His gaze slid back to mine, and the older man seemed tired. “I thank you for ending her killer, but it doesn’t negate the fact that you killed my brother, David, and his son, only two weeks ago.” His calm demeanor shifted, revealing something far more deadly. Patrick O’Hara might have been older, might have looked civilized, but men like him and I were always hiding behind masks. I knew he’d kill a man without blinking.
“And I’m sorry for that.” Well, maybe I was sorry for Shane, but not David. I couldn’t regret killing the fucker who’d nearly killed Tommy. “We were both set up—”
My words were interrupted by a single bang, the distinctive sound of a bullet splitting the night air. The warm mist of blood hit my face as a gasp of pain reached my ears.
It took my mind a long moment to catch up, to process what was happening. But it was too late. O’Hara’s eyes went wide as he choked for air, trying to breathe through the gaping bullet hole in his throat. Blood blossomed over the front of his suit, and even as Jackson grabbed my arm and tried to drag me away, I reached for the man.
Pulling free, I caught Patrick before he hit the ground, lowering him to the concrete.
Maybe I thought he deserved a shred of dignity. Or perhaps I felt like I owed him for killing his family members. I wasn’t sure, but as I stared into the dying eyes of a man who had served as my enemy, I realized that I had underestimated my true enemy.
Sergio Donato had set a trap, and I’d walked right into it.
The eruption of gunfire snapped my attention back to my surroundings. Jackson dragged me away, pulling me behind the car as bullets pinged off the metal.
Anger and frustration washed over me. I’d come to broker peace, and it looked like I’d lured O’Hara here to kill him.
How the hell did Sergio know we’d be here? That Patrick would be here? The warehouse had no cameras, and we’d had the perimeter surrounded this entire time. That meant that the sniper was in position long before we had reached the warehouse. We had another rat; it was the only explanation. Thoughts flew through my mind at a hundred miles an hour as I tried to recall any and every hint of deception.
More bullets pinged off the car, blending with the rapid bang, bang, bang of Jackson’s semi-automatic.
“That was a fucking sniper,” Jackson as he dropped back down beside me to re-load.
“No shit.”
“Came from the warehouse to the south. The furniture place.”
Another round of shots pinged off the car, but I managed to peer out long enough to assess the surrounding buildings. There, about a hundred yards away, sat the warehouse in complete darkness. It was the perfect position to make that shot. A clear line of sight, easy escape.
“Cover me,” I said to Jackson as I palmed my gun and rose.
“Shit. Do not die, Gio.” With several more curses, he stood and opened fire.
Manic laughter blended with the rapid shots as I sprinted for the nearby Outfit warehouse. The smell of gasoline permeated the air when I ducked behind the building. Bullets followed my path, hitting the brickwork inches from me, but I was already running, moving around the back and into the shadows between buildings and storage containers.
The steady pop, pop, pop of gunfire grew quieter as I moved, slipping farther and farther from the fight. I felt shit for leaving my men, but if I could find that shooter…
I made it to the furniture warehouse and pressed my back against the wall, peering into the dark alleyway between buildings.
A shadowy figure dropped from the metal fire escape ladder. He blended into the night, dressed all in black, hood pulled up to conceal his identity.
The case clasped in his left hand marked him as the shooter. Sniper rifle. Professional. Unlikely to be mafia then, but a hired hit.
I didn’t give a fuck as long as the mob knew it wasn’t me who hired him. I would serve him up on a silver platter and hope it was enough to prove Sergio’s involvement to broker peace.
