Page 16 of King of War

Chapter

Six

ENZO

Iwatch the car drive away, her and Luca inside, thankful she’s out of my orbit so that I can think a little more clearly. Except the second she’s gone, her face stays there anyway, and the way she looked at me like I was both monster and memory. Luca will make sure she doesn’t run, and I’m not sure she’d try anyway. Rayne is a survivor, and despite how much she might hate me, she also knows that I’m the best shot at getting her out of whatever mess she’s gotten herself into.

“What the actual fuck, bro?” Rafael says, staring after the car like I am. “Rayne?”

“I know.”

“What the hell was she doing with the Bertellis?”

That I don’t know, and even though it’s driving me crazy to think about, right now I need to focus on the fact that the don’s son is dead, and I have to be the one to tell him. Not to mention lie my ass off about it. So, for now, Rayne and all her chaos will have to wait.

I clap Rafael on the back. “Go return that car and I’ll take care of everything else. I’ll meet you at my place when we’re done.”

“You sure you don’t need me to come with you? Or take care of that mess in there?” He jerks his chin toward the club.

“No. We stick to the original plan as much as possible. The less it changes, the less Carmine gets suspicious.”

He nods. Solemn. Rafael is a chaos monster, but he can be serious when the occasion calls for it, which I always appreciate in him. “I’ve got your back, okay? Whatever you need.”

I need to find out what the hell Rayne Ellis is doing back in Vegas, but I suspect Rafael isn’t the one to get to the bottom of that.

I walk through imposing double doors of Carmine’s mansion and steel myself for the conversation we’re about to have. It’s no secret that I’ve never been Vinny’s biggest fan, and compassion isn’t exactly my strong suit, so the line I have to walk between guilt and remorse is a fine one. This job was off from the start, but exactly how, I can’t yet figure out. There’s every chance Carmine knew Rayne would be there today, and that’s why he sent me.

I resist the tunnel vision and focus on my surroundings, looking out for anything unfamiliar that might make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Everything about this house screams excess. It’s ostentatious and unapologetically gaudy—a palace built not only to impress, but to intimidate.

The marble floor beneath my feet gleams, veined with gold and polished to a flawless shine. My shoes echo through the grand hallway, the one lined with large landscapes in gilded frames. A handful of armed guards linger in the shadows, amid vases overflowing with exotic flowers that rest on carved pedestals.

Nothing out of the ordinary yet.

Carmine is in his study. Waiting for the update. He doesn’t seem surprised to find me alone. But then, Vinny often goes to celebrate immediately after a job. Which means he snorts a mountain of white powder with whatever woman is desperate enough to spend time in his company.

“Ah, Enzo.” His voice is booming, as loud as his taste in decor. “How was it?”

I take a beat, remind myself this is the don’s only son. His legacy. The useless, coked-up, loudmouthed prick I shot without hesitation because he pointed a gun at Rayne. That truth sits behind my teeth, sharp enough to cut me if I let it move. So I swallow it down, school my face into the expression Carmine expects from me, and give him the only version of the truth I can safely offer. “It’s not good, boss.”

His brow furrows, and I don’t draw out this any longer than necessary. “Vinny didn’t make it.”

I brace myself, preparing to bear the brunt of his epic rage, but it doesn’t come. He stares at me, blinking rapidly, like he can’t quite comprehend the words I just spoke. I wait for his brain to catch up, exactly the way I would if I weren’t the one who blew Vinny’s brains out. He goes on staring, blinking, like someone just gave him a lobotomy.

And then he slumps into his chair. A part of me, the little piece of humanity I still possess, actually feels empathy for his loss. I know too well how it feels to see a father grieve his son, because Carmine Falcone has deprived more fathers of their sons than cancer, and most of the time he’s used my hands to do it. He’s never mourned a single one. But now he’s the one grieving, and I hate that I feel anything at all. Somehow, I always do.

“What happened?” He finally speaks, his voice a low dangerous growl.

“Joseph Bertelli shot him.”

He bangs his fist on his desk. “What fucking happened, Enzo?” He roars now, his emotion spilling out of him.

“Joseph wasn’t in the same room; he was in an office at the back. After we dealt with the other six, I went to find him. Vinny followed. Joseph was waiting for us. Had his gun raised when we went inside. He shot Vinny, and I shot him.” I keep it brief and factual, as close to the actual story as possible. Using the Ruger instead of the Makarov ensures that the ballistics report will back up my version of events.

Carmine shakes his head. “No. No. No.” He trains his fiery glare on me. “That is impossible. How did Joseph miss you and shoot my boy? You went in first, yes?”

“Yes,” I admit, because even Carmine knows Vinny is too much of a coward to walk into the room without me to hide behind. “He aimed at the doorway, not anyone in particular, and he fired. I dived out of the way in time. Vinny didn’t.”

“So you sacrificed my son to save your own skin?” he accuses.