I trace my thumb down the curve of her jaw once more. I want her to say something, anything at all. Say she loves me or say she hates me. Even a simple goodbye. Make this a moment to remember.
But she remains silent. She stares at me with level eyes, and I look back at her, wishing I knew how to express all the feelings raging inside me. Then the moment passes, and I turn to leave with Claudio.
He and I march down the hallway. Just before we disappear around the corner, I glance back over my shoulder.
She’s still looking at me, green eyes glinting with chaos, her perfect body clothed in shadows.
Claudio leads me out front and down the long drive to the guardhouse. We approach a black body bag, partially unzipped. Giovanni’s horrified, petrified gaze stares up at us from below.
“We found him outside the gates, sir,” one of my soldiers explains to me.
“What did the cameras show?” I demand.
To his credit, the guard does not seem overly flustered. “Unfortunately, nothing we can use, sir. A black sedan with no license plates stopped. Two men in hoodies and ski masks pulled the bag out of the trunk and left before we could pursue them. We didn’t know if it was a bomb, so we had to approach cautiously. By the time we made the identification, it was too late.”
I growl in frustration, but the man is right—there wasn’t much that could’ve been done. “Fuck,” I mutter, looking down at Giovanni. A rat is a bad thing, but a dead rat isn’t much better if I can’t do the killing myself. Giovanni was nothing more than a pawn in a bigger game.
I reach down to unzip the bag the rest of the way so I can see what killed him. The soldier shifts uncomfortably. “Sir … it is not a pretty sight.”
I laugh mirthlessly. “I’ve seen worse. I promise you that much.”
I pull down the zipper, and when the wound in Giovanni’s torso is revealed, I suck in a sharp breath.
Giovanni’s chest is a crater of blood and bone. Whoever killed him wanted to send a message. This will be messy if you do not cooperate.
“There was a message with him, wasn’t there?” I ask Claudio.
He sighs and rubs his face. He looks exhausted, and for the first time ever, I worry about him. He’s been an anxious man for as long as I can remember. But this is more than anxiety—this is fear surging through him like poison.
“What did it say, Claudio?” I demand.
He grimaces and withdraws a bloodstained index card from his inner jacket pocket. I take it from him and take a look.
Printed on the card is a message.
Time to strike a deal. The docks. Tomorrow at midnight. This ends now. –Igor.”
Igor. That fucking Russian bastard.
I turn to look at the silhouette of the mansion out of the guardhouse window. The stars are bright above the roof. Harper’s window is illuminated, and as I watch, her shadow passes across it.
This ends now, Igor wrote. Part of me craves that. I was once so certain about everything in my life.
But that certainty is gone. Peace is gone. All that’s left is chaos.
I have to find a way through. Not just for myself but also for her.
“You know this is a trap, Marcello,” Claudio says, stating the obvious.
“Of course,” I say, making a fist. “But if it’s a war he wants, it’s a war I’ll fucking give him.”
I have something to lose that I will fight like hell for now. Harper.
I keep my eyes trained on Harper’s window, hoping to see her shadow once more. Just give me one sign of life and let me know she’s still there. But there’s nothing. My eyes lower to my consigliere in front of me.
Claudio sighs and rubs his eyes. For once, all his nervous tics have calmed. Silence and stillness reign.
“What do you need me to do?” he asks.
“Gather all our best men,” I respond. “We’re going to stop the Russians and put an end to this, once and for all.”
Marcello
I return to the house and descend into the armory. It’s a chilly room off one branching wing of the basement, sealed by a massive iron door. I punch in the biometric code and scan my thumbprint. The gears whirr and the deadbolts pull back, allowing the door to swing open and reveal what’s inside.
The walls are lined with cabinets filled with my private collection of weapons.
I walk to the far end of the room and throw on my bulletproof vest. I take two Heckler and Kochs from a cabinet and shove them into my belt at my back. Grabbing ammo, I shove the clips into my pockets. My rustling movements and the clink of metal are the only sounds in the room.