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My sneakers squeak on the wooden floor as I creep along the hallway, but the sound is drowned out by the noise of the TV. The game’s on. Patriots vs. Colts. Ten more paces until I reach the den. This isn’t the first time I’ve been here. I know the kind of tiles used to decorate the bathroom, and I know the brand of whiskey the owner drinks and how frequently he drinks it. He downs at least half a bottle during every Pats game. I know that the glass coffee table he uses to hold his bottle of Jameson is from Ikea. I had one just like it in a warehouse yesterday, before it got smashed to pieces and tossed in the dumpster of a local Turkish restaurant by one of my men. Wrapping my gloved hand around the thick shard I kept, I pull it from my pocket.
Slipping into the den, I see the half empty bottle of whiskey on the table and the empty glass sitting beside it. I swallow a knot of regret. I wish I could drag this out. Oh, the pleasure I would take in peeling the skin from his bones while listening to the music of his agonized screams. I’d gouge out his eyeballs and force them down his throat. Let him know who’s responsible for every agonizing second of his death while I draw out his pain for as long as I can. Sadly, this needs to look like a suicide.
I quietly step up behind him, although he’s too drunk to even hear me. A part of me hopes that he has good instincts and will spin around and confront me because then I could legitimately beat the fucker to death with my bare hands. But his eyes remain glued to the screen, and he curses the Patriots’ receiver for dropping the ball.
I’m so close I can smell the whiskey on him and see the strong pulse in his neck. Grabbing his jaw, I tilt his head back before he can process what’s happening.
I pull his head back far enough that I can look into his eyes. “Remember me, you sick fuck?”
He makes a grab for me and I don’t flinch back. I’m wearing all-black combat gear, the kind that doesn’t leave fibers behind. He can struggle and pull at my clothes all he wants. It won’t change the outcome of his night.
“This is for Mia and Michaela, you evil fuck.” I snarl as I slice the shard of glass across his carotid artery. “You’re going to die just like your piece-of-shit brother.”
He makes a final grab for me, then clutches at his throat, sputtering and coughing. A river of blood pours down his neck, soaking his football jersey, and I hold onto him as every drop of life drains from his body. Once he’s dead and his eyes go dull, I let go and he falls forward.
Taking the shard, I position his hand around it. Then I grab the bottle of whiskey, raise it high and drop it onto the coffee table. It crashes through the glass, shattering it into pieces. I don’t have a note, but I do have the unredacted sealed files and Michaela’s permission. I place them on the sofa beside the brother who made her life a living hell. Hopefully he’s about to spend the rest of eternity in his. Between his family history and the presumed guilt over what he did to his little sister, I have no doubt his death will be ruled a suicide. But if the detectives suspect even the slightest hint of foul play, I’m covered. I happen to know the new Superintendent of the Boston PD—Pete Hayes.
ChapterSeventy-Two
LORENZO
Hands stuffed in the pockets of my suit pants, I stand in the hallway watching her. So fucking beautiful.
“You know this is supposed to be girls only, right?” Max walks up beside me, bumping my arm before he stops and stares too, watching my sister the same way I watch Mia. We stand here in silence, each of us transfixed. I swear Mia’s smile could light up the entire city. My sunshine.
“I knew this is where you two would be,” Dante says with a roll of his eyes as he comes up on my other side, cradling his sleeping son in his arms. “Can’t stay away, huh?”
“Well, you might be an old hand at this, but it’s kind of new for us,” I remind him.
“Never gets old though, bro,” he replies with a genuine smile as he stares at his wife.
Max turns and looks at my younger brother, cocking one eyebrow. “Surely you’re not going to make that poor woman have any more of your giant babies after this one?”
Dante flashes him a grin. “I want at least one more.”
“You want five kids?” I ask.
“I want six, but Kat says five, so…” He shrugs.
“What about you, Loz? Will this be the first of many?” Max asks me.
I stare at Mia. Her face glows with such joy that I wonder how I ever got so lucky. Pregnancy looks good on her, but we’ve already agreed on our number. “One more,” I reply.
“Joey says she’ll wait to see how much of a tiny demon our first one is before we decide on more.” Max laughs.
I glance at my sister, hand resting protectively on her swollen belly and her eyes shining with joy. “She may change her mind. She’s young.”
Dante snorts. “If your daughter is anything like her though…”
Max’s eyes widen with horror. “Fuck. I’m never gonna know a second’s peace again, am I?”
“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dante replies with a grin. Kat is pregnant with their fourth child and despite our father being a monster, my younger brother has taken to fatherhood like he was born for the role. I only hope that it comes as naturally to me. “So, which baby do you think is going to arrive first?”
Mia, Joey, and Kat fell pregnant within weeks of one another, hence the three-way baby shower currently being held in our mansion. Our dining room is full of thirty giggling, excited women and my fiancée outshines every single one of them.
“Mine and Joey’s,” Max replies instantly. “She’s due first.”
Dante laughs. “First babies never arrive when they’re supposed to, compagno.”
