Page 68 of Ruthless

So, I resist the bait and bite my tongue, shoving Zanni away to demonstrate who’s stronger. Guards along the walls shift forward, but Arlecchino motions them back and leans forward himself as if eager for us to come to blows.

I could take Zanni down easily, drive my fist into him until he’s choking on teeth and blood and bits of mask, but I don’t. I can’t. My entire life, the Councilors have acted as untouchable boogeymen, even among the mafia. Physical strength means nothing when those above you can destroy you and your entire family with the snap of their fingers.

“Do you seriously think I’d let that bitch off with a slap on the wrist after what she put me through?” I force ire into my tone. “She’s nothing to me but a punching bag I can fuck whenthe mood strikes, and anyone who thinks differently should get their eyes checked.”

The room is deathly quiet. Can they hear my heart pounding? See the sweat on my skin in the shadows? I know how to prove myself, but with the old conviction and bitterness gone, their absence leaves a hollow in my chest.

“That’s good. A couple of us were concerned you were getting soft.”

He laces the statement with an obvious challenge.

In the background, Vivian still sobs. With my jaw clenched, I pull away from Zanni. After the briefest of hesitations, he lets go, and once I’m free, I stride through the crowd until I reach the beaten and bloodied Vivian. I snatch the whip from the man beating her—some mid-level capo named Antoin—and force myself to feel nothing when she flinches and braces for more pain. Her back is shredded, yet a line of sick fucks still waits for their turn.

With a swish of my wrist, the whip strikes her once. Twice. Three times. Even tempering the blows via flashy motions, Vivian wails and jerks.

I’m done.

Heaving an aggravated sigh, I become the embodiment of annoyance. “I’m growing bored, and the traitor just bled on my shirt.”

Flicking an imaginary speck off my sleeve, I feign a growl and dive forward, throwing an arm around her neck. In the next instant, I bury my face into her sweat-soaked hair. “Go in peace,sorella d’anima,” I whisper, so softly that only she can hear.

She shudders, her body calming at last.

Under the guise of Argento rage and cruelty, I do what I wished someone had done for me when I found myself at the mercy of the Ghost and his men. With one quick motion, I snap her neck and release her from her misery.

No one moves or speaks as I lower her to the ground. Straightening, I step over Vivian’s body and stride toward the doors. “If you’ll excuse me. I don’t want this stain to set into my favorite shirt.”

I’m relieved when no one attempts to stop me. For the moment, it looks like they bought my excuses regarding Sara, but that grace period has an expiration date. I plan to ensure that when they finally come to collect, Sara is somewhere far, far, away from me.

The wrenching pain beneath my ribs is of no consequence.

I barely exit the chamber before my phone rings. Luca’s name flashes across the screen, and I answer while shouldering a red-eyed stoner out of my path. “Luca? What?—”

“Something tripped the silent alarms.”

My heart falters, and I strip the mask off my face while sucking in a lungful of air. The townhouse is the most obvious location of the mole’s burrow, so I installed silent alarms after speaking with Giovanni. In the absence of any recent incidents, I almost forgot about them. “What do you mean,something? Have you checked the cameras yet?”

“I’m working on it.” Luca’s tone signifies he means business. “But chances of it being an accident are slim. You need to get home.Now.”

As I rush for my car, I should be focused on my men’s safety and the valuables or intel stored in the penthouse.

Yet only one face haunts my mind as I hit the gas and race from the parking lot.

Sara’s.

Chapter 27

Sara

I’m this close to drifting off to sleep when the lights flash on.

The door bursts open, startling me as Angela hurries in.

She motions for me to get up. “We have to go!”

Thanks to the emergency room, I have high stress tolerance, and the fog of exhaustion clears from my brain before I even process what’s happening. Within seconds, I’m on my feet, automatically catching the clothes Angela tosses my way. “Get dressed. Hurry!”

I do as I’m told and slip on the baggy black jeans. “What’s going on?” I cinch the jeans as much as possible and tug the hoodie over my head.