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“No.” I take the fire exit. “Let the cops have this one.”
My next stop is at the hospital.
The men in front of Sabella’s room greet me with nods. They’ll change shifts in a couple of hours. I want the soldiers who guard her fresh and vigilant.
A few people sit on the chairs in the corridor, reading or checking their phones. I recognize one or two from last night. They move their feet out of the way to let me pass.
“Any change?” I ask the woman who sits at the nurse’s station on the first floor.
“No,” she says, giving me a small smile.
I push the door open and go inside. She’s right. Sabella looks exactly like she did six hours ago. The room is different though. A huge bouquet of pink flowers stands on the trolley at the foot-end of the bed, and a giant get-well balloon floats against the ceiling. Boxes of chocolates and candy are stacked on the nightstand. My wife is popular in town. She looks well-loved.
I take her hand and press it against my heart. “I’ll make them pay,bella. I promise you that. Nothing will ever happen to you again.”
I seal the oath with a kiss on her forehead, and then I leave to fight a war someone else started but that I have every intention of finishing.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Angelo
The carnage around me makes the warehouse looks like an abattoir.
They’re all dead.
Marziale walked straight into my trap. They arrived early, but we were already waiting. We cornered his men around the warehouse. When we opened fire, they had no choice but to flee inside for cover. The chemical gas took care of the rest. Our gas masks protected us. They were immobilized, their motor skills hampered by the paralyzing effect on their nervous systems, but their sensory impulses were intact.
They felt everything.
I take comfort from that as I look at the unrecognizable carcass that hangs on a hook from the ceiling. I did everything to Marziale I promised myself I would. He just blew out his last, laborious breath through his skinless, lipless face. I’ve taken what I wanted. There’s nothing left to hang around for.
“Let’s wrap this up,” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead.
My expert already planted the explosives. He gives a thumbs-up sign. We have five minutes to get the hell out of here.
“Do we take him?” a man asks, nudging Enzo’s still body with the tip of his shoe.
“No.”
He doesn’t deserve a burial. He didn’t fight for me. He fought for Gianni. Without formal training or combat experience, he didn’t last long. My only regret is that he died on impact when the bullet ripped through his heart. He should’ve suffered.
The men work fast, gathering weapons and clearing the building. I catch a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror as I slide behind the wheel of the SUV. Covered in blood, I’m a fucking mess. The whites of my eyes are the only color discernible in the red. My clothes are drenched, my hands soaked. I look every bit the monster I am.
Four minutes later, I steer the vehicle over the bridge. The three SUVs with my men follow. On top of the hill, I stop to look at the warehouse. An explosion blasts the building, orange clouds billowing into the sky. Another one rocks the guardhouse. Metal roof plates fly through the air. A few smaller explosions follow in quick succession, flattening the whole block of constructions. All Marziale’s assets gone. All traces of that son of a bitch wiped out.
I savor the sight for a couple of seconds before taking the road that runs into the mountains. We stop at the abandoned farmhouse where I left my car, undress, and burn the clothes. There’s no electricity or running water, but the melting snow feeds a small waterfall that tumbles over the rocks into a stream.
The men light a fire and heat water to wash, but I scrub myself clean in the icy water under the fall.
We dress in the clothes we packed, dump the ashes of our burnt gear in the stream, cover our tracks, and take a detour inland. While the men carry on home in the SUVs, I drive my car to the hospital.
For once, the corridor is empty except for my men. Visiting hours ended at eight. It’s eleven already.
The nurse from this morning steps out of Sabella’s room. “Mr. Russo.” Despite the late hour, she says in a chirpy voice, “Your wife is making progress.”
“She is?” I hold my breath. “Is she awake?”
“Not yet, but she talked, which is always a good sign.”
