“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Because if shit goes down, I won’t be able to protect her.
“It’s crunch time—the game’s coming to an end. Don’t want her wrapping her ears around any secrets.”
Remo winks. “Gotcha.”
I watch him walk back to the club with my chest splitting in two. I hate lying to my brothers, especially with something that threatens our bond.
The end of the month is getting closer—time to let Pfeiffer go. And I have a gnawing feeling in my gut that I won’t be able to.
I pullup to the abandoned church Remo wrote in his text and scan it for lights. It looks as though there’s no one inside, but maybe that’s the point.
I quickly fire off a text to Remo:
Me: You sure this is legit? The church looks derelict
Remo: It’s where the Fagan Brotherhood base themselves
Me: There’s no one here
Remo: Go out back—the maintenance shed…
I lift my gaze to a side alley to the left of the building.
…but mind you don’t trip over the body parts
Me: WTF?
Remo: Yeah. They’re known for cutting up their enemies, right there on the altar
A sour taste forms in my mouth. We, the Bellucci’s, aren’t exactly the most humane family of killers but I’d like to think we draw the line at recreational axe play.
Me: I’m going in
I pocket the phone and climb out of the car, stepping carefully along the alleyway. No body parts in sight, thankfully. A light glows faintly at the back of the church and the sound of voices draws me in that direction.
Built onto the back of the church is a decent-sized shed, debris scattered around it. The door opens before I can brace my fist to knock, and a dark-haired pretty boy wearing brass knuckles and a smirk appears.
“Il Diavolo,” he grins. “Come on in.”
I look around as I enter, scanning for threats and hidden exits, but the sight stuns me. The walls, though small, are lined with every size and kind ofknifeI could imagine.
Not decorative or ornamental ones either. They’re obviously functional.
Andlethal.
There are thick-handled hunting knives, curved skinning blades that look like they’d peel more than flesh if needed. A row of compact switchblades, built for quick work in close quarters, and heavy, square-edged cleavershang lower down.
Further along are serrated combat knives, narrow fillet knives and even a battered old butcher’s knife, its blade nicked and stained.
My gaze cuts across them all. There’s more than a collection here—it’s someone’s legacy. And it’s a harsh reminder that, in this world, violence isn’t just a means to an end. It’s a craft.
Two more men stand at the edge of the room waiting patiently for me to complete my inventory.
“Interesting décor you have here.”
