Then I was going to run far away from this place.
And never set foot in Italy again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Achilles
A driver waitedfor me at the private airport on the mainland. It was just like Tierney to choose a convoluted place that was a bitch to navigate. He drove to the nearest point with water taxis, and I boarded one to Piazza San Marco.
Once at Piazza San Marco, I entered a souvenir shop and got a mask. I’d be disappointed if she didn’t do the same. Tierney was whip-smart, even under duress. The tourist attraction was wired to oblivion with CCTV, and both of us intended to commit a grave crime.
I chose a jester mask in burgundy and gold. An homage to her Joker and Harley reference. I didn’t mind her knowing who I was. It’d probably speed things up, and I was needed in Naples, anyway. The clusterfuck with Coppola wasn’t going to unfuck itself.
I didn’t really believe she’d managed to get her hands on a gun in the few hours she was in Italy, but I didn’t put it past her to try and kill me in some other way. I’d beat her to it, but I wouldn’t be happy about it.
In fact, I would never forgive myself. But it was either her life or mine, and I’d be a fool to spare her when she’d indicated numerous times she wanted me dead.
Donning my mask, I strolled out of the store and into the open square.
My phone began ringing. My father’s name flashed on the screen. I answered, calmly surveying my surroundings through the mask.
“Have you found the Irish slut?”
A muscle in my jaw jumped at the slur, but I swallowed down my ire. “Yup.”
“Good. Because we’re sending Jeremie back to Vegas.”
“Who authorized this transfer?” It sure as fuck wasn’t me, and Jeremie was directly my inferior.
“Alex, and I don’t have the time nor inclination to scrimmage with the pakhan. We’ve got enough on our plate with Coppola.”
“And Jeremie agreed?” I moved deeper into the square, heading toward its center, to be in plain sight. Tierneywouldmake a mistake. Not because she wasn’t smart, but because she wasn’t a trained assassin. I’d done this song and dance a hundred times before.
“Jeremie is the Rasputins’ problem, and I don’t give a shit what he has to say about this,” my father announced.
“What’s he giving us in exchange?” I asked.
“The sister, Katya.” He paused, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come. “Twenty. Very pretty, I hear.”
I made a grumbling sound, my eyes zeroing in on a long-limbed woman standing under an arch of St. Mark’s Basilica. I’d recognize that ass, those legs, her posture from space, while blindfolded.
“I want you to marry her, Achilles,” my father said on the line. “The Russian girl. Kill Tierney, make Katya your wife, and take the throne. You can have it all if you just do as I sa?—”
I killed the call and pocketed my phone.
Tierney was wearing a Venetian mask and was armed to the fucking teeth. I spotted two Swiss knives and a small pair of scissors through her skintight clothes.
That’s my girl.
It was a shame I had to kill her, but rules were rules. You didn’t fuck with the Camorra and live to tell the tale.
Stuffing my hands into my jacket, I cocked my gun inside my pocket, strolling in her direction. I relished the moment she realized it was me. The way she tensed, like a small, jittery rabbit about to take flight. She turned south, taking quick steps out of the square. I closed the distance between us but kept my pace easy.
She didn’t make the mistake of peeking over her shoulder. That would cost her time she didn’t have. She kept moving with purpose and, when we entered a residential street, she picked up speed.
I was gaining on her, and she knew it because, soon enough, her brisk walk broke into a jog. She must’ve studied these streets prior to our little duel because the small, narrow roads kept emptying the farther we progressed, twisting and convoluting into clusters of orange-roofed buildings.
Another sharp turn. This time, as soon as I followed her, it forked into two darkened alleys. Both dead ends—one leading to a garage and the other to what looked like the back of a restaurant.
