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“One by one,” I sing out as they drop to the ground, a perfectly executed hole in the middle of each of their heads. “This is your only fucking warning to retreat now, motherfuckers. When I’m done with you, you’re going to wish your mother had swallowed,” I yell over all the white noise—the symphony of gunfire, grunts, and screams urging me forward.
This brownstone just became a fucking carnival funhouse. Most people would think this situation isn’t ideal. Me? I fucking thrive on this shit.
Blood. Chaos. Mayhem.
That’s my thing. Mythings.I don’t play chess. I don’t fucking golf.
I kill. I torture. I maim. I make our enemies, and whoever the fuck dares to cross the Valentino family, pay with their blood and the blood of their loved ones. It’s all in a good day’s work, really.
Sticking to the shadows, I walk through the house. Silently. I have the advantage here. I know the layout of these walls like the back of my hand. I find two more stupid assholes as they enter the dining room. I shoot the gun right out of one guy’s hand, while putting a bullet through the other’s head. Walking up to the fucker who’s now a few digits short on his right palm, I grab him by the collar of his shirt. “I really hope that wasn’t your jacking-off hand. I don’t imagine you’ll get much of a grip without your fucking fingers.”
“Fuck you!” he grits out between clenched teeth.
I don’t get to reply before something hard hits me over the fucking head. I see his blurry smile right before I hit the ground with a thud.
* * *
When I come to, I’m sitting in the middle of the fucking kitchen, my arms tied behind my back and my legs tied to the chair. Well shit, this isn’t good. As I crack my neck to the left, I’m greeted with the ugly fucking faces of four men. Who they are, I couldn’t tell you. Low-level soldiers obviously. Dispensable fuckers sent on a suicide mission.
When I get myself out of this chair, they’re going to beg for death. My gaze moves from one to the other, memorizing all four of their ugly fucking mugs before I smile. I love to play with my kills. It’s the only time I can truly be myself, because I know they won’t be alive long enough to tell anyone else just how fucking crazy I am.
“Not sure what the fuck you’re smiling about, dipshit. You’re about to meet your maker,” asshole one says.
“I’m smiling at the memory of your sister’s cunt wrapped around my cock last night. Her tight, little, wet hole loved being fucked. She begged me for it.” I don’t even know if the fuckface has a sister. But I’m a betting man—and the odds are that he has at least one—while the punch to the face tells me I’m right.
“Fuck off. My sister wouldn’t fucking touch Valentino scum.”
“Are you sure about that? ‘Cause I could have sworn the chick I had bouncing on my cock last night told me her brother was a fucking pansy motherfucking wannabe gangster, and you sure as fuck fit that description.”
He loses his shit, landing blow after blow to my face. I clench my teeth and take the hits, remembering each point of contact he makes, because that’s where the tip of my knife will return the favor. When he’s done, he steps back, breathless.
“Is that all you got?” I ask.
“Not even close,” asshole number two says, stepping forward and flicking open the switchblade in his hand. Yep, that’s likely to fucking sting a tad bit more. But I’m a fucking master at hiding my emotions. Hiding my thoughts. Only letting people see what I want them to see. “You’re going to tell us where the fuck your boss went, and where that hot piece of red-headed ass of his is hiding. Me and my boys were promised a piece of that pussy, and we’re here to collect our prize.”
I laugh. Like fuck I’d ever tell them where T is. And I sure as fuck would never let them near his fucking wife. That girl is pure fucking goodness. Everything our world isn’t. “You might wanna just go ahead and kill me now. You know as well as I do I’m not telling you shit.” I smirk.
“Everyone breaks eventually.” He tears into the front of my shirt, trailing his knife down the center of my chest while using just enough force to scrape the first layer of skin.
“Everyone but me, fucker. Do your worst. Go on,” I urge him. Where the fuck are all our fucking soldiers. And how the fuck did I let these goons get the best of me?
Just as I’m contemplating headbutting the fucker, a shot rings out and his brains fucking splatter across my top half. He drops to the floor seconds before the remaining three follow suit. And as if manifested by the shadows themselves, the currentbossto myunderbosstitle appears. “What the fuck took you so long?” I grunt at my best friend. I struggle against the ropes around my wrists.
“What the fuck happened to you? How’d you let them get you in this chair?” T asks, picking up a knife from the butcher’s block on the bench before cutting me loose.
I ignore his question. One, because I don’t have a fucking answer for him. And two, because I don’t have a fucking answer for him. “Where the fuck are your clothes?” I ask instead. It’s very un-Theo-like to be roaming around in nothing but a pair of fucking sweats. The man’s usually dressed as if he’s meeting the fucking President. Nothing but the finest suits made from the finest fabrics.
“I was in the fucking bath. I took Holly through the tunnel and left her at Helena’s,” he replies, and I’m relieved to hear he got his wife to safety.
“Is she okay? Holly?” I ask, recalling what that son of a bitch had mentioned. Yeah, I’m not stupid enough to repeat those words to T. I happen to love my city, and I don’t want to see it burned to the ground just yet.
“She’s fine.” He’s clearly unnerved by anyone talking about his wife, even me. “What the fuck happened here?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Good question. How’d these assholes know about this place?” I look around at the bodies. The mess. The interior is going to need more than just a few fucking cleaners. It’s going to need a goddamn bulldozer.
That’s when I see her. My head does a double take. Angelica Donatello. In the flesh. In my fucking safe house. What the fuck is she doing here? I don’t get a chance to ask her that very question before she’s gone.
Angelica is T’s sister. Well,halfsister. I don’t think they’ve ever met. And given the fact that my cousin just discovered the truth about his paternity a few weeks ago, I know now’s not the time to relay this tidbit of information. So I keep my mouth shut. I’ll determine why she’s here before the day’s out.
