Bratva Sinner (A Possessive Mafia Romance)

1

Luke

I was in a rush to kill this guy.

It wasn’t my style, running into a hit blindly. I should’ve spent time planning, setting everything up, getting myself ready, but the reward for Justin O’Shay’s head was too tempting and I knew a lot of guys were after him already.

Fortunately, I had a prior business arrangement with him, and knew where he spent his time.

The bar was called Daly Drinker up in Fishtown tucked behind a working-class neighborhood where all the front porches were covered with that fake putting-green grass stuff and white plastic lawn chairs. Rain pattered against my windshield as I parked and made sure my gun was loaded.

German squinted across the street. He was my number two, my right hand in the crew. Square jaw, light eyes, always a goddamn frown on his face. I didn’t think I’d ever seen the guy happy, which was just as well. He loved getting in fights more than anything else in this world, and I figured if I ever wanted to see him smile, I’d have to let him break my nose.

“You sure he’ll be here?” German asked.

“Pretty sure. He likes this spot.” I leaned forward, peering at the rundown bar over the steering wheel. The door was painted green, though it was faded and peeling, and the sign looked like it wanted to fall off the facade.

“I hear Maher’s coming for him too.” German peered at me. “That gonna be a problem?”

“Not if we get in there first.” I slapped German on the shoulder, which he hated, of course. “Come on, let’s get moving.” I opened the door and stepped out into the rain. I didn’t mind getting my boots wet, but I was wearing an expensive jacket and a pair of decent slacks. I flipped up my collar and hurried across the street.

German caught up with me. “You think he knows about the price on his head?”

“Probably.” I looked both ways as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Quiet, just a couple local guys sitting on a stoop nearby, looking at their phones. “Justin’s got his ear to the ground.”

“A little too close to the ground for his own good.” German grunted, which was as close to a laugh as he ever got.

I headed toward the Daly Drinker with my hands shoved in my pockets. German came behind me, his eyes scanning all around. I stepped inside, wiping the rain off my sleeves, before I looked up at the dim bar room. The place was a real dive, with an old faded American flag hanging up on the ceiling above the bartender, the bottles outlined by cheap string Christmas lights. The table were all round with round stools, and several more stools were lined up in front of the faded and peeling bar top. The walls were covered in wood paneling and old movie posters were plastered along the top half like wallpaper.

The place was nearly empty. A few young guys stood around a high-top on the left, drinking beers and laughing with each other. More older locals sat belly-up at the bar, and at the very end, hunched over a glass of something brown, was Justin O’Shay himself.

Dumb bastard. If I were him, I would’ve gotten the hell out of town already.

Some very important people wanted him dead. In the grand scheme of the city, he was a nobody, some minor bit player that did odd jobs for the bigger families. He was a thief, a forger, sometimes muscle, sometimes a driver, but generally a piece of shit willing to do nearly anything if the money was good enough. I’d worked a couple jobs with him over the years and threw some tasks his way that weren’t all that interesting, and we kept it cordial for the most part.

Unfortunately, he ripped off his last employer, and his last employer happened to be the Lionetti family, the strongest Italian mob in town.

Now there was a price for his head, and I wanted to be the one to collect.

German stuck close. I could practically feel the gun in his hand already as I approached Justin. The guy looked up and flinched back as I smiled down at him, trying to be as disarming as I could. There were bags under his eyes and his skin was sallow like he hadn’t slept in days and hadn’t stopped drinking in all that time. His hair was going gray and his beard was patchy at best, and frankly, the guy looked like shit.

That was what happened when you were a petty criminal and an alcoholic for most of your life. Old age didn’t discriminate and time came for everyone. Especially idiots that didn’t bother to take care of themselves.

“Luke,” he said, smiling up at me with a bland grin. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”