My hand is still on his shoulder. I can’t seem to make myself pull it away. Ten seconds. I give myself ten seconds to stay here. To feel this. Then I lock it down and push to my feet.
The guy I punched is groaning, starting to come around. I find some electrical cord behind the bar and tie him up. He’ll have answers later.
I need to check the perimeter. Make sure no backup is coming. Then get out of here.
I shove the door open and step outside.
Cash is standing next to my truck, craning his neck toward the bar entrance. Probably waiting to confirm I’m dead so he can collect whatever the Bratva promised him.
Idiot.
He doesn’t run. Just cowers against my truck as I walk toward him, hands up, already begging.
“Wait, wait, please?—”
“Why?” I grab his shirt and slam him into the side of the truck. The movement pulls at my ribs. I feel the wet slide of blood under my shirt. Don’t care.
“Look what you did to me!” He holds up his casts.
“You stole from us. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you then.”
“Fuck you.”
My hand closes around his throat. “You didn’t set this up alone.”
His eyes bulge. “Bratva,” he chokes out. “They offered me more money and a chance to get revenge. All I had to do was set up the vandalism and lead you here tonight.”
Lead me here.
He didn’t know Santino would come. Didn’t plan for that.
Doesn’t matter.
“Was it worth it?”
“No, please, I can help you, I know things?—”
I snap his neck before he can finish.
The body drops. I stare at it for a moment, waiting to feel something. Victory. Justice.
Nothing.
I drag him inside with the others. Lock the door. My side is throbbing now. I press my hand against it, and my palm comes away red. Not deep enough to be a problem. Deep enough to need stitches.
Later.
I drop onto a barstool and pull out my phone.
Dario’s number stares up at me.
I hit call.
“Matteo?”
“Dario.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “I need you to come to a bar on 19th.”
Silence. Then: “What happened?”
