"See that it doesn't. Clean yourself up. Get rid of the evidence. And come to the club. We need to discuss this situation. And we need to discuss this woman who's making you sloppy."
He hangs up.
I stand in the hallway, blood on my jeans, Francesca crying in the next room.
Over a decade of this work—clean kills, no mistakes. Nothing ever mattered more than the job.
She's ruined me for this life.
I can hear her breathing through the door—unsteady, broken, mine.
I need to clean up, change clothes, dispose of evidence. Tonight I'll face Don Marco's wrath, deal with the war I just started.
The Bratva will retaliate. Don Marco will want blood. The cops might have everything they need to bury me.
None of it matters.
I turn back toward her door. She's crying in there, and I need to put my hands on her more than I need my next breath. Need to make sure she's real, still here, still mine.
But if I go in now, I won't leave. And Don Marco is already furious.
I force myself to walk away. Down the hall to my bedroom. I strip off the blood-stained jeans, shove them in a plastic bag for disposal. Change into clean dark jeans and a black button-down. Check my Glock, slide it into my shoulder holster.
The bloody clothes go in the trunk of my car. I'll burn them later. Right now, I have a different fire to deal with.
The drive to Little Italy takes forty minutes in early evening traffic. I park two blocks away from the club and walk. The streets are busy with tourists and locals heading to dinner. No one looks twice at me.
Sal is at the door. He nods, steps aside. "He's been waiting."
Not good.
I head through the front room—card tables, old photos on the walls, espresso machine in the corner that actually works—and into the back.
Don Marco sits at his usual table. Hair perfectly combed, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit. He's reading the Post, espresso cup at his elbow.
He doesn't look up when I approach.
I wait.
"Sit," he says finally. Still not looking at me.
I sit.
He turns the page. Reads for another thirty seconds. Then folds the newspaper precisely, sets it aside, and looks at me.
His eyes are cold.
"Three bodies," he says. "Brighton Beach. Eleven in the morning. Gunshot that half the neighborhood heard. Blood everywhere. Witnesses." He picks up his espresso, takes a sip. "Want to tell me what the fuck happened?"
"It got complicated."
"Complicated." He sets down the cup. "I sent you to send a message. Clean. Professional. Make it look like an accident or make it look like we're serious. Either way works. You know this. You've done this a hundred times."
"I know."
"So what happened?"
I could lie. Make excuses. Blame Orlov's security or bad intel or a dozen other things.
