The corner of Salvatore’s mouth quirked. “I knew you’d do great things, Damon. You always were a hungry boy. I could see it in your eyes.”
Preacher’s nostrils flared. His chest caved and his heart quaked. “You killed them.”
Salvatore’s expression didn’t change. “No. I did not. But that doesn’t matter anymore, eh?”
Preacher jumped to his feet and snarled, “No, it fuckin’ doesn’t.”
Pulling his blade from its sheath, Preacher moved to stand behind Salvatore. Gripping a handful of the old man’s hair, he wrenched his head back and pressed the edge of the blade to his throat. A thin red line welled amid his wrinkled, sagging skin.
Salvatore didn’t make a sound, didn’t move a muscle. Neither did Preacher.
Preacher had gotten into countless fights during the course of his life. He’d broken men’s bones and beaten men into unconsciousness. He’d done some sketchy things in prison to ensure his own safety—things he wasn’t proud of.
But he’d never killed a man before.
The finality of this moment barreled into Preacher like a freight train. There would be no going back, no do-overs, no time to press pause and just drift along while he sorted through his bullshit.
He made the mistake of glancing up. All across the room, all eyes were on him, waiting for him to finish it. He knew he couldn’t look weak, not in front of his own men, and especially not in front of the Road Warriors. Not if he expected to take control of them, to lead them.
So he did the only thing he could think of to do. He flipped his fucking switch and let it all back in—everything he’d long shut out.
He let his mother’s face fill his memory.
And he thought of his father.
He saw the smear of blood on the trailer door.
And then he recalled the day he was forced to watch as their matching coffins were lowered into the ground.
And just when he wanted to scream… he slid the blade across Salvatore Rossi’s throat instead.
The mob boss slumped to his side, wide-eyed and clawing at his throat. Both horrified and fascinated, Preacher watched as thick, dark blood spurted and gushed from the gaping wound in his neck.
“It’s done, then? You’re gonna patch us in?” Rocky’s booted feet drew precariously close to the blood creeping across the floor.
Preacher cleared his throat and prayed his voice didn’t shake. “I need you and your boys to lay low for a while, wait and see if we get any blowback. But yeah, it’s done.”
Rocky started to smile, and Preacher turned his attention back to Salvatore. The old man had gone still, though his mouth still worked soundlessly.
Preacher was suddenly struck with a memory.
When his he and his brothers were little, The Judge would take them fishing at the pier. He taught them all sorts of things—various fishing line knots, and what bait worked best for which fish. The fish they’d catch, The Judge would slap across the dock, killing them instantly.
They should never be needlessly cruel, The Judge had told them.
Again Preacher saw the smear of blood on the trailer door—an image that would never leave him.
And then he walked off, leaving Salvatore gasping for air.
• • •
Inside the clubhouse, half his club trailing behind him, Preacher headed into the kitchen. Quickly peeling off his gloves, he tossed them onto the countertop and moved toward the sink. Behind him, his men filed in. Nobody said a word.
Turning on the faucet, Preacher cupped his hands and splashed several handfuls of cold water on his face. Dripping wet, he gripped the counter and bowed his head. Preacher’s arms began to quiver.
He’d done it. He’d actually fucking done it.
It was so fucking surreal, this entire day. He’d avenged his parents and effectively ended the Rossi family. Him. Just a no-good kid from the neighborhood.
