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“You’re like a rabid half-breed dog that needs to be put down,” he snarled.
“Try me, motherfucker. Because you have something to lose, but me? I have no clan. No family. Nothing. Fucking try me. I beg you.”
His right eyelid flickered.
A sign of fear, of weakness.
In a standoff between mafie men, you never show a sign of weakness.
I should’ve taken the eye tick as more than what it was because a second later, he grabbed my shirt and shoved me off him. I laughed. The bastard was fool enough to think he could win in a physical fight against a man like me. He wasn’t wrong when he’d called me a rabid dog, I was rabid, but more like a rabid berserker, bloodlust thrumming through my veins.
He jumped off the bed, his hand scrambling to open the drawer of the nightstand, scrambling for a gun. I was hoping to play with him for a bit, but a gun would change the odds significantly in his favor. I wrapped my arm around his neck, pulling him back into my chest.
“I’ll fucking destroy you,” I gritted out.
He struggled viciously. We wrangled, toppled to the floor, and the knife flew out of my hand and bounced under the bed. Sprawled on the floor as one, I saw his outstretched hand reach underneath the bed.
Slamming my balled fist on top of his hand, I heard a crunch.
He screeched.
Wrestling him beneath me, I blindly tapped the pitch-black space beneath the bed until my fingertips grazed the cool handle. One hand on his nape to keep him in place, I lunged and got a grip on the knife. I grasped his hair, brutally yanked his head back, and sliced a perfect arc across his throat in one swift, efficient move.
Blood gushed everywhere.
Black moisture splashed onto my gloved hand and forearm. I felt a spray of wetness across my face. From the incoherent gurgling sound he made, I’d severed his windpipe. There were a series of harsh gasping noises as he shuddered his way into death.
Blood soaked the floor. Goddamn, I must have slit his carotid artery and jugular vein, two powerful jets, because blood seemed to spew out endlessly.
I released his hair and his head plunked down, his temple hitting the ground with a loud thud. My shoes squelched in the pale-colored wooden flooring, the pool of black wetness spreading beneath my feet. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, leaving me with a rapid heart rate and heightened senses. The shadows seemed to sway back and forth, like live beings, as I bent down and wiped the knife clean on his sleeve before returning it to its holster.
The cursive of blood etched on my face was cooling, coagulating on my skin, pulling it taut. I stumbled around in the shrouded darkness toward the bathroom, closed the door, and flipped on the light. The blood had dried enough that it took a little effort to rub it off. Without taking off my blood-stained leather gloves, I cleaned it off with a small, spotless white hand towel, which I stuffed into the back pocket of my dark jeans, to dispose of later.
Stalking back into his bedroom, I kicked him a few times. There was no need for confirmation, but it was an old habit of mine. With one final scan to make sure I’d cleaned up, I stepped out onto the terrace and texted Alex.
The surf was loud, breaking over the shoreline, each wave crashing and receding, only to roll up and crash again. The sound wasn’t half bad. California might take some getting used to, but I was willing to make the effort. I drew in a deep, bracing inhalation of cool, salty air. The last part of our bargain had been completed.
My phone vibrated.
Alex: I will take care of them. Good luck with the rest of your life brother. La revedere.
Farewell.
It was bittersweet. Mostly bitter. A tinge of sweetness in his nostalgic acknowledgment that, till the end, we’d be brothers. Separated till death, but perhaps we’d reunite in the afterlife.
I swung over the wrought-iron banister of the terrace and jumped down a flight to land on my feet.
It was time to go get my woman back.
