I gesture to the window. “Has he said anything?”
“No.” Georgi pats my shoulder. “I don’t know how long he’s going to last. You better get this show on the road.”
Unbuttoning my shirt, I shrug it off before tossing it on a chair. I want to go straight back to the hospital and don’t want to get any blood on the white fabric.
I open one of the drawers where Georgi keeps all his toys and grab brass knuckles, slipping them onto my right hand.
My eyes catch on my wedding ring and the engraved initials. Mom and Dad’s rings have their initials on the inside of the band, but I wanted ours visible for the whole world to see.
I flex my fingers as I walk to the door, and yanking it open, I step into the open room. I hear rats scurrying in the vents, desperate to get to the blood they’ve scented.
Except for Marco sitting slumped on the chair with his arms tied behind his back, the room is otherwise empty. There’s a drain where all the blood usually gets washed down after Georgi’s done killing someone.
Bending at the waist, I grab Marco’s hair and pull his head back so he’ll look at me. When the eye that’s able to open locks with mine, he lets out a slurred chuckle. “I was wondering when you would come.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? I was promised a seat at the table.”
My tone is deceptively calm as I ask, “Who’s all at the table?”
He must think I’ll end him with a quick bullet to the head because he answers, “Paolo Bellandi, Orlando Mancini, Carmine Bianchi, and Renato Rinaldi.”
“That’s it? Only the four?”
“Yeah. The other families only pledged their allegiance.”
Letting go of his hair, I pat his cheek. “Okay.”
Still keeping eye contact with me, he says, “Make it quick. For old times' sake.”
This man ate at my table.
We shared laughs.
“How long has it been?” I straighten up. “Eight years?”
“Yeah.”
“You shot at me.” I flex my fingers again, and lifting my eyebrows, my expression turns grim. “You shot Laurie. Nicked an artery. She almost died.”
He lowers his head, knowing there’s no fucking way I’ll give him a bullet.
“You betrayed me,” I say, my voice empty.
He nods right as I bring my arm up, and using all my fucking strength, I slam my fist into the knee of the leg he wasn’t shot in.
His body instantly strains, and his ass lifts off the seat, his roar of pain filling the room.
I don’t stop, hammering his leg with the brass knuckles until the kneecap pops to the side.
Marco weeps, spit dribbling from his busted lips.
But it’s not enough. He shot my butterfly.
Grabbing him by the throat, I shove him backward, and when the chair hits the floor, I keep slamming my fist into him until his face is nothing but shattered bone, blood, and gray matter.
I inhale the distinct scent of death, and satisfied that I’ve given the Grim Reaper a soul to feed on, I climb to my feet.
