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“Father Damon Russo of Saint Mary’s Catholic Church.” Hiding the rage is nearly impossible as I answer through clenched teeth. “I just came by to check on Ivy.”
“She’s fine! Go away.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” Knuckles burning with tight fists, I tell myself I don’t have to kill him. I can spare him after punishment, but I know better. If he’s hurt her, there can be no mercy. “I know she lost her grandmother, and I’d really like to check on her.”
“Listen, asshole—”
The minute the door swings open, I lurch forward and swing. The punch knocks the guy back on his ass, and within seconds, he scrambles forward, barreling right into my gut. Like a linebacker, he tackles me backward into the wall, bumping the mirror, which crashes to the floor.
I manage to get him into a headlock and hammer a punch into his face, cracking his nose.
“Fuck!” Falling backward onto the floor, he cups his nose, but not even that stops him from charging at me again.
I take the hit to my ribs, and he pummels punch after punch, damn near knocking the wind out of me. Blocking the next hit, I swing and crack his jaw, kicking his head to the side on a spray of blood. Another hit kicks it the opposite direction. Another splits his lip open.
Body crashing onto the floor, he weakly blocks my punches, until a stab of pain radiates across my arm, and I pause to see a knife sticking out of my bicep. The distraction costs me the next punch, and he climbs over me, knocking his fists against my arms that shield my face. Blow after blow weakens my muscles, casting a burn through my body. He turns the knife in my wound, and I bellow, my mind snapping with the pain.
I look up and see his face for the first time.
He looks at me.
Vinnie Bianchi. I grew up with the bastard back in New York. Was my best friend and often accompanied me on jobs for my dad. Only, we didn’t call him Calvin back then. He was the wannabe gangster. The kid whose family disowned him for hanging around Anthony Savio’s son. He joined the military for a while, and got shipped overseas. Ended up suffering from post-traumatic stress and got into security work, also known as paid assassinations, and he pulled a couple jobs for my dad, quickly gaining my father’s trust.
The last person I’d expect to see.
“You rotten motherfucker!” A surge of strength beats through my muscles, and taking advantage of what appears to be shock on his face, as well, I throw him off of me.
“’The fuck? I thought … I thought you died. No one heard from you again.”
“You killed my family.” I yank the knife from my arm, capping my hand over the oozing blood.
“That was business. Wasn’t personal. I didn’t want to do it, but your dad paid me a lot of dough for that one.”
“Why? Why would you take everything that ever mattered to me?”
“Why’d you leave, huh? Just up and fucking disappeared? That bitch … that bitch had you wrapped around her finger from the beginning.”
I lurch forward with the knife. Straddling his body, I press it toward him, shaking with the effort, as he fights me, holding the knife away from his throat where I intend to slice him open.
“She … didn’t … love you. She tell you … I fucked her before you left … for California?”
“Fuck you!”
“It’s true. She came … to my house … asking me to … take her in.”
“Liar!”
“You made … her leave … New York. She was … fucking miserable.”
I press harder, putting every ounce of muscle into driving the knife into his throat to silence his words. “So, what did you do? Follow me out to California?”
“Your father … asked me to keep an eye … on you and Val. Val, in particular.”
“And Isabella?”
“I didn’t … want … to kill her. It was … a mistake. She got … in the way … protecting Val!”
Are you resolved to consecrate your life to God for the salvation of his people …
