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I’d killed in front of Sophie before when I stabbed Enzo at the club. But she wasn’t well now. Another blood bath right in front of her eyes was out of the question.
“Let’s take this outside,” I said with a calm that denied the boiling rage coursing through my body. “Now.”
Fausto had killed my father—his own brother—in cold blood.
And Moretti had witnessed it.
I wanted to know why before I killed them both.
Moretti nodded, and his two men exited the room first and held open the door.
“Salvo,” my mother said and stopped Moretti mid-turn. “Thank you.”
As if that was too much, Moretti hung his head and sighed. “Maria.” He glanced over his shoulder at Fausto before he continued. “There’s something I need to tell you. Should’ve told you as soon as it happened.”
He took one calculated step, subtly turning, so his back was to the wall instead of Fausto, but his eyes stayed locked with my mother’s.
Was Fausto unarmed? Was that the reason Moretti would confess that he watched him murder my father right in front of him?
Fuck.
I shifted to block Sophie from Fausto. And one look at Cristo was enough for him to do the same for my mother.
Would Moretti confess to my mother? Or did I misread the situation?
“I should’ve come clean the moment it happened,” Moretti said.
Fuck.
“No,” Fausto screamed. He crouched, then drew a weapon from his leg holster, and pumped a series of small-caliber shots center mass into Moretti.
I tackled Sophie, cupped her head, and pulled her with me from the bed to the floor.
Cristo took my mother down.
And Alessio?
Alessio killed Fausto with a single shot, neatly placed between his eyebrows.
Fausto looked surprised, then crumpled to the floor.
What a goddamn mess.
“Clear!” Alessio shouted, kicking Fausto’s weapon away.
Then the two men Moretti brought with him entered, their weapons drawn.
Cristo, Alessio, and I faced them. “Fausto did this; we took care of him,” I said in as calm a tone as I could muster in an attempt to de-escalate this situation.
“If you want your capo to pull through, we need doctors, not more bullets,” Alessio said, then tucked his weapon away and bent over Moretti. “He needs a doctor…fast.”
“What will it be?” I asked and lowered my gun—they mirrored my movement, thank God.
Cristo lifted our mother off the floor and into a chair, then vaulted over Fausto’s body, sprinted to the door, and left in search of a doctor—one of the men followed, the other one kneeled next to Moretti.
I looked down at Sophie, who stared at the scene with bulging eyes and a gaping mouth. “Wha—”
I lifted her into my arms and back into bed.
