Page 112 of Mafia King
“Your fucking car is in the driveway.”
Hetsks. “Don’t you know about Foothill Street?”
I do, but everything’s a jumble, and I don’t know how.
Damiano growls in my ear so close I feel his spit. “Let him know you’re here before I make you scream.”
The second Santino knows where I am, he’ll come up here, and screaming that there’s danger will only get him here quicker. There’s not a chance that Damiano’s bullet will miss Santino’s head as soon as it appears.
There’s no force I can apply to get away. He’s too strong. And there’s no risk I can take that won’t risk the baby inside me.
Somewhere, my phone rings.
“What do you want?” I croak.
“I want what I was promised.” The pressure against me lessens. “Emilio Moretti’s second daughter.”
“What?”
Damiano pushes off me. I turn. He’s taken half a step back into the room. The brooch left his eye bleeding and swollen. He may lose it, and he may not care, because it barely slows him down.
My phone’s still ringing.
He grabs me by the elbow and drags me toward the window. I won’t help him do whatever he’s trying, so I let my legs go limp under me, and he flings me against the wall of windows. The glass rattles and shudders as my body hits it, arms up to soften the impact on my face.
Damiano pushes me against the window. Below me, Santino stands at the edge of the sparkling pool, looking up. His phone is between his hand and the patio tile, stopped midair in a time loop—falling, falling, falling as he reaches inside his jacket for his gun.
It’s out, cold and black in his fists, the diamonds of his crown ring glinting in the sun.
My phone stops ringing.
Santino aims for the window.
He’s not going to shoot me.
He can’t hit Damiano from there.
He won’t fire. He’ll come up fast, thinking he’s saving me and cornering Damiano.
He’ll know he’s at a disadvantage, but he won’t win.
He has to know this.
“Come on up,stronzo,” Damiano growls. “Come and get her.”
Santino lowers his gun, looks ahead, and is about to start forward, into the kitchen, up the stairs, and to his death.
I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to stop it.
Santino stops.
Good.
Damiano chuckles as if he knows something I can’t see.
Santino’s right hand drops. His grip loosens. The gun falls. He takes half a step back, to the edge of the pool, with his palms out in front of him. He says something I can’t hear.
“That’s right, baby,” Damiano murmurs in my ear. “Get close.”
