Page 7 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
And without warning, I release him and step back, pulling my gun in one smooth motion. The movement is practiced and automatic. I’ve done this a thousand times.
He sags against the wall like a bag of potatoes, blood running down his chin, his expensive suit ruined beyond repair. He looks at my gun and something like satisfaction crosses his face.
He thinks he’s won. Idiot probably thinks this is me trying to negotiate again.
Well, let him think that. Just for the next few seconds. I pull the trigger.
The first bullet pierces through his chest, dead center. His body jerks, slamming back against the wall. His eyes go wide with shock and pain. Like he didn’t really believe I’d do it. He turns, facing the girl and whispers something, but I can’t hear it.
The second bullet hits two inches from the first. Making sure. Destroying everything vital inside him. Heart, lungs, major arteries. Everything that keeps a man alive.
He slides down the wall, leaving a trail of blood behind him like some grotesque painting. His mouth opens like he’s trying to say something, but only blood comes out. Dark and thick. Pooling on his expensive carpet.
I step closer, standing over him, and aim at his head. His eyes meet mine one last time.
Die with your secrets.
The third bullet goes through his skull smoothly, finishing the job.
The gunshot echoes through the room, impossibly loud in the sudden stillness.
His head snaps back from the impact and then he’s still. Completely still.
Antonio Marchetti is dead. The legendary ledger died with him.
And somewhere in this room, a girl with green eyes just watched me commit murder.
Well, this is inconvenient.
3
SCARLETT
The gunshot jerks through my soul, splitting my ear and I scream.
I can’t help it. The sound rips out of my throat involuntarily as Antonio’s body slams into the wall, too close that the blood is mere inches from me.
His gaze stares at his attacker, shocked, then turns to look at me with soulless eyes. His lips move. Barely, just the faintest whisper of sound that I shouldn’t be able to hear over the ringing in my ears from the gunshot.
“…saint…watches…”
The words are barely coherent. The words of a dying man.
He whispers again, then a gunshot rings again, and again, and my attacker crumples to the floor like someone cut his strings. His legs fold beneath him and he hits the expensive carpet with a thud that seems too quiet for what just happened.
He’s dead. Oh god, he’s dead.
Blood pools beneath him, spreading fast across the cream-colored carpet. Dark red. Almost black in the dim light. His eyes are still open but they’re going glassy, unfocused, staring at nothing.
Then his chest stops moving and he’s just gone. Life leaves his body like air from a deflated balloon. One second a person, the next just meat, blood and bone.
I’ve seen people die before. In the ICU, peacefully, surrounded by family. Sometimes surrounded my surgeons and doctors who tried their best but it still wasn’t enough. But this is different. This is violent and sudden and wrong in ways I can’t process.
And now the killer is going to shoot me too.
The thought cuts through my shock like ice water and suddenly I can move again. I scramble backward, my bare feet slipping in something wet.
Blood, I realize in horror. Antonio’s blood—and my back hits the wall hard enough to knock what little air I have left out of my lungs.
