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“If you want him to die slowly, aim for his stomach,” I say. “If you want to make it quick, go for the heart or the brain. Between the eyes is always a solid choice if you don’t want to waste time or bullets.”
Gianni stares at the Glock. A drop of sweat runs down his temple.
Geoffrey wails.
My tone is dry. “Any time now.” I fold my hands in front of me, widen my stance, and wait.
The first time is always the hardest.
Gianni lifts the gun and aims. He shakes so much the barrel is all over the place.
“Steady,” I say.
“Fuck.” Geoffrey starts to pray and then interrupts himself to beg. “Please.”
“I—” Gianni wipes a forearm over his brow. “I can’t.”
I place a hand on his shoulder. “Easy now. It’s just us. Me and you.” No one else here to witness his cowardly display. “Aim and pull the trigger. He’s a sitting duck. You don’t even have to chase after him and hit a bullseye in the run.”
Gianni falters. He drops his arm. The gun dangles uselessly at his side.
I sigh and hold out my palm. “Give it here.”
“You can’t,” Geoffrey screams.
Gianni clenches his jaw, raises his arm, and shoots.
Geoffrey howls. Not dead. Gianni hit him in the bicep. Idiot. Before I have time to react, Gianni pulls the trigger again. Geoffrey yells like a pig that’s being slaughtered. The bullet tore into his knee.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mumble. “Just put him out of his misery.”
Gianni starts crying.
Wrestling the gun from my cousin’s hand, I point the barrel between Geoffrey’s eyes. My aim is steady. The shot I fire kills the traitor on impact. His body goes slack. Finally, silence. Except for Gianni’s wheezing.
I grip his arm and make him face me. “It’s us or them. Always.” Tapping the barrel against his forehead, I say, “Remember that. If you let them go, they’ll come back to fuck you over. To torture and kill you. Letting enemy soldiers go sends the wrong message. It says we’re weak.” The memory of dismissing Sabella’s bodyguard, Roch, instead of putting him six feet under enters my mind. I should’ve killed him. For once, my uncle was right. But my mother’s death was still too raw. I couldn’t dishonor her memory like that.
Gianni shakes off my touch.
“Got that?” I ask.
He wipes his nose with the back of his hand before nodding.
“Clean up your face,” I instruct.
He dries his tears on the sleeve of his jacket. When he’s presentable, I open the door.
My uncle stands on the other side, nervousness etched on his features.
“Take him for a drink.” I tilt my head to Gianni who follows. “He may need a stiff one.”
My uncle gives his son a pained look. “Did he…?”
“No.” I make my way to the car with long steps. “Idid.”
ChapterThree
Angelo
