The message had barely finished buzzing in my hand before I forwarded it to Rahul, a ghost in a basement two continents away, the quiet little genius who lived behind a multitude of screens and a permanent migraine, fingers already tearing through towers, burner routes, and spoofed numbers with a speed that would put a Boeing to shame.
Some men thought phones made them invisible, that a burner and a little paranoia could hide them from the world.They didn’t understand that nothing digital stayed buried if you knew where to dig.
Ten minutes was all it took for a name, an address, and a live location to land back in my inbox, the idiot who sent it unaware he’d just signed his death warrant. By the time he caught up though, my hands had done a good job of rearranging his face.
Unknown: You’re fucking dead, asshole
The message glowed against the screen, bright, stupid and brave. For a second I just stared at it, my thumb resting against the edge of the phone, wondering if the words would reorganize themselves into something smarter.
A slow smile pulled at my mouth. “Dead, you say?”
I shifted my gaze from the phone to the suited fuck kneeling in front of me or what was left of a suit. The fabric had darkened to a sticky maroon, collar torn, tie hanging useless and crooked while blood crawled down his throat in lazy streams. His face barely resembled a face anymore, more a blue-black makeover. One eye swollen shut, the other staring at me wide and wet, a nose in serious need of realignment.
“The only way to threaten a fuck like me–” I stepped closer until my shoes nudged his knees apart. “Is don’t.”
Veritàslid into my palm, the blade catching the light for half a second before I shoved it up under his chin, the tip splitting skin, pushing past teeth, forcing his jaw open wider until the steel disappeared into his mouth.
A choking gag slipped from him, thick and desperate, hands fluttering uselessly at my wrist. I didn’t rush, leaning in close enough to smell fear on his breath. Then I pushed harder, the blade punching through soft tissue, scraping the back of his skull with a dull, intimate crunch. His body jerked once, twice, the fight leaving him and he pitched forward to the floor, bloodspreading out under his head in a slow, widening halo, dark and almost pretty against the tile.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was his last wet gurgle fading into nothing. I stepped back, wiping the blade on his ruined jacket then slowly turned. The other two men were still on their knees, wrists bound in the laps, faces already half ruined, blood dripping from their noses and mouths
Gian stood a few feet away, chest rising hard, knuckles split and red, green eyes bright with that familiar spark. Admittedly, the boy had moves. Slick. Fast. Just as fucking crazy. He’d broken them down exactly how I liked, all precision and control, and somehow still managed not to kill them when I told him not to. Few men could stop themselves once blood started flowing.
He looked at me like he was waiting for approval, and I gave him a slight nod. I moved toward them, slow, unhurried, letting my shoes echo in the silence so they trembled with every step closer. Standing in front of them, I let the blade hang by my side and tilted my head to look at them. Both flinched, dropping their eyes.
“Was it worth it?” I asked.
The bulkier of the two lifted his eyes from my crimson streaked weapon, and the way he stared at me suggested he’d already imagined exactly where that steel would go next. “Please, Remo, I warned Michael not to do it. I swear to God, I warned him.” His lips trembled, referring to the man I’d just killed.
I studied him for a moment. Shoulders hunched inward, fingers twitching against his thighs, eyes darting at anything except my face. Irritation circled the air around me. These fuckers never admitted guilt when they thought they were safe, only discovering honesty when blood was already on the floor. “Men always swear to God when they’re about to meet him.”
“He’s telling the truth.” The other fucker rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “He wouldn’t listen. Elio came by last night, said he wanted your money siphoned out slow, piece by piece until you were dry, penniless, Michael told him he was already working on it, that the Rossi’s owed him for doing such a good job hiding their dirty money so well. He was stupid to send that message after saying only men with balls would go after you.”
“Did he now?” I chuckled, pulling my phone from my pocket and opening the file Luca had sent over, columns of numbers clean and orderly, every theft lined up like a confession waiting to be signed. I held the screen where they could see it. “Do you want to live?” They both nodded. “Then start by being useful. Who has access to the business bank account?”
“We both do,” they replied in unison.
“Good.” I motioned to the bigger one with the blade. “Get up and log in.”
He scrambled to his feet, slipping in Michael’s blood before catching himself on the desk, leaving smeared red fingerprints across polished wood as he dropped into the chair. His hands shook so badly he had to type the password twice, while I stood close enough that he could feel my breath on the back of his neck.
The system opened and numbers flooded the screen in tidy rows, millions stacked on millions, money that made small men feel powerful. I leaned over his shoulder, resting one hand on the desk, the other still holdingVeritàloosely, the tip hovering near his cheek.
“That’s a lot of fucking zeros.” My eyes moved through the transactions, the hidden transfers, the clever little cuts he thought no one would ever notice. “Who else has he been skimming from?” He swallowed a few times, his silence answering for him. “All your clients who trusted him?” Henodded. “Stupid fuck was digging his grave with a pencil.” I dragged the mouse around until the Rossi accounts appeared. “Transfer the funds to those accounts. Split them up unevenly. I don’t want it to look clean.”
He hesitated, glancing up at me. “All of it?”
“Fucker won’t need money where he’s gone.”
His nod slow, he turned back to the computer and executed the instruction. Done, he sat back and looked at me. I tipped my head toward his kneeling partner. Understanding dawned across his face. Still, he pushed himself up and dropped to his knees beside his partner, hands already meeting together in prayer.
“Pleas–”
Veritàslid through his throat in one swift motion. I didn’t rush it or yank the blade free too fast, letting him feel it, understand the exact second the air stopped belonging to him. And when his body toppled forward, the other man squealed, scurrying away on his hands and knees, sobbing.
I nodded to Gian and he emptied his magazine into the man with ruthless enthusiasm, each shot punching through meat and drywall alike until the body stopped moving and the room fell back into a ringing silence.
When the echo faded, I raised a brow. “One bullet?”
