“We need to get that checked.” Lorenzo pointed to my arm.
“Not important right now.” I shrugged. “I haven’t painted enough walls with these motherfuckers’ blood.” That was the truth, the fight always ended too soon.
Another second and four men rushed us and four shots to their chests dropped them to ground just as quickly.
“Seems like they underestimate the Rossi brothers,” Dario snorted.
Lorenzo glanced at him. “You’re our brother too, Rio. Never forget that.”
I didn’t say anything, but I agreed. Anyone who bled for us, was family.
We stepped inside what I quickly gauged was a massive living room, and the place reeked of wealth. Gold crawled across every surface, gilded frames, heavy curtains, marble that shone too clean for a house that had just tried to murder us. It wasn’t taste, just overly done excess, with money men collected when they thought it could protect them from bullets.
My boots tracked blood across his polished floors, marking them and that made me smirk.
At the center of it all sat D’Angelo, draped across a couch like a bloated king too heavy for his own throne. His shirt strained at the buttons, sweat dark under his arms, jowls trembling when he shifted as if even standing might cost him breath. He’d doubled in size since I last saw him but still an asshole who sent boys to die while he hid behind velvet.
My jaw tightened, my trigger finger itching to plant a bullet into that oversized brain. Assholes like him always disgusted me.
His guards reacted first, rifles lifting, safety disengaging, their fingers already tense on their triggers. I counted them automatically, eyes moving from face to face, chest to chest, measuring distance, angles, who would fall first, who would take longer. Twenty, maybe a few more. The three of us would takethem down in a minute. Less if I didn’t get bored and make it messy.
D’Angelo raised a hand to stop his men; the gesture annoyed me more than the guns. The man assumed he controlled this room, that we were guests instead of executioners.
“Let’s talk, Rossi,” his voice boomed across the room, the sound grating against my skull.
“A little late for that, D’Angelo,” Lorenzo’s said, calmly.
He lowered his gun and stepped forward, and every instinct in me sharpened. My position shifted without thought, half a step behind and to his right, gun trained straight at D’Angelo’s chest. Dario mirrored me on the other side. We’d stood like this our whole lives. Him in front. Us at his back. Anyone who wanted him had to come through us first.
D’Angelo’s jaw tightened under all that wobbling skin. Sweat gathered at his temples. I watched it slide down and disappear into the folds of his neck. “What do you propose I do?”
My brother moved closer. “It’s simple. You die.”
The words settled into the room heavy and final, and something low in my gut eased. This was the part I enjoyed most.
D’Angelo laughed, but there was no humor in it, just air rattling in his throat. False bravado for a man who sensed his death was near but refused to acknowledge it.
Lorenzo lifted his hand before the man could speak again. “We’re done talking. Bring her in.”
I didn’t look away from the guards when Dario stepped off. My finger stayed light on the trigger, ready to empty the room if one of them twitched wrong.
“Bring who in?” The fat fuck’s eyes flared. “You wouldn’t hurt my wife and daughters, Rossi. You’re not that kind of man.”
“I said you die.”
Footsteps approached. Soft. Steady. Alessia came up beside Lorenzo and I glanced at her. She wasn’t the frightened girl I remembered standing in front of her father. Now, her shoulders were squared, chin lifted, eyes sharp as glass. No tremor in her hands. No hesitation. She looked like she’d already buried this man in her head years ago.
“Father.” The hatred in her voice could’ve cut stone.
“It’s been almost four years since I’ve seen you, Alessia. Not even a hug for your papa.” He held his arms out
Did he expect her to run to him?
“I have something better,” she gritted. Without a blink, she took the gun from Lorenzo’s hand. I checked her grip. Firm. Correct. No shake. She aimed. The crack echoed sharp and clean.
The bullet punched straight through his brow, snapping his head back. For a split second he looked confused, like he couldn’t understand how his own daughter had done it, and then all that weight slumped forward, crashing to the floor in a wet, graceless heap. Piss and blood spreading across marble that probably cost more than most men’s houses.
“Good girl,” Lorenzo complimented but I felt pride curling in my chest. She hadn’t flinched. “His empire is yours,mia cara.”
