“You won’t survive this,” he stammers. “My men will kill you as soon as they hear what happened.”
“They might.” I shrug. “But I made a promise to my wife.”
I move in on him, but he tries desperately to slap me away. Annoyed, I twist one of his arms and slam my foot on his elbow. Snapping it so loud it echoes against the tall ceilings.
He wails in pain, and I hesitate for a moment. Not because I’m questioning what I’m doing.
I’m relishing the moment.
I break his other arm to give him no chance of retaliation and then climb on top of him.
My hands shake uncontrollably with anticipation. Every morning of my life, I’d hope that I would wake to the news of Marco’s death. Maybe from an enemy bullet or maybe a heart attack. I never truly thought I would get the privilege of carrying this out myself.
Andhowcouldn’t be more poetic.
He looked at my wife in her most vulnerable, intimate state, so he no longer gets to see. But there’s a second reason as well. When I was fourteen, he made me do this to one of our prisoners. This was when I had barely any experience with violence. Even at that young age, I knew not to let my discomfort show in front of him as I was doing it. The texture of plunging my thumbs into the eye sockets of another has haunted me to this day.
But now, I suppose, that haunting will bring a smile to my face because I’ll always think of Marco’s death.
The abusive, psychopathic asshole.
The lecherous creep.
Thinking about what he would do to Sofia if I weren’t taking control of the situation permanently makes me throw my hands in his face.
He’s no longer screaming; he’s sobbing like a baby as I push my thumbs further and further in. I can’t imagine the pain. The terror he must be feeling, knowing that at best he will spend the rest of his life in darkness.
My thumbs are all the way in as he squirms beneath me. The noises coming out of him are nothing that I could have ever imagined hearing. I’m sure that I’ve only had my thumbs in his eye sockets for a moment, but it feels like it’s been an hour. I pull my hands out. He isn’t dead yet, but I’m sure he wishes for it, and I’ll oblige him.
But I take a moment to plan first. The next few hours will be utterly crucial for keeping myself both alive and in charge. I’ll need to contact Sal, Gio, Dante, and Elio, letting them know it happened and I need protection and support. We’ll need to convince the other capos to fall in line. All the ones that won’t, will have to die.
I gesture for Antonio to come over and then take his gun from him. Shooting Marco three times. Once in the head, then twice in the chest—I don’t want him hooked up to life support like Vincenzo.
Sofia remains silent during these gunshots, and that worries me. I quickly instruct my men what to do: guard the door and tell the captains loyal to me to hurry here and bring a small army.
Then, I rush back into the bedroom to check on her. I instinctively rub my hands on my chest, forgetting that I’m shirtless and spreading some of Marco’s gore on me. But that barely helped anything; my hands are still coated.
She is not going to like the amount of blood on me.
Chapter 20
Sofia
Threegunshotsgooff,and the horrible screaming stops. From what I heard, I’m pretty sure Marco died, but I'm not certain. I wrap the towel tighter around myself as I continue sitting in the bathtub. This felt like the safest place for me to go.
I’ve been in a state of shock ever since I looked towards the bedroom door and found Marco staring at me with a sick smile on his face. And while I hide in this bathroom, I’m desperately trying to get that image out of my head while also not trying to picture what’s going on outside.
The bathroom door opens, and Alessandro walks in. My hand flies to my mouth as all the blood in my body rushes to my ears. His hands are coated in blood, and it looks like he’s wiped someon his chest as well. I take deep breaths, not wanting to act dramatic when clearly he’s been through something awful.
Buthoware his hands so bloody?
“What happened?” My voice is weak.
I can’t get a read on his emotions right now—it’s as though there’s a placid calmness to him, but that doesn’t make sense with what I heard.
He moves to the sink and starts washing his hands. “I don’t know whether I should tell you.”
“You killed Marco?”
