Page 61 of King of War

“Oh, I’m gonna find out who it was. Trust me.” He winks before slipping off the stool and taking his plate to the sink. Then he spins around, arms folded over his chest so that his biceps are straining at the sleeves of his shirt, with a look of devilment on his face. He has the same Medici bone structure as Enzo—the strong jaw, the straight nose, full lips. But he’s different too, his eyes not quite as dark, and a thick beard covers the lower half of his face, making him look rougher somehow. Less polished than Enzo, but no less dangerous.

“Do you still like vodka?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He smirks. “Enzo has some really good shit he got from the Russians. Costs like four thousand dollars a bottle.”

Before I can reply, he rushes out of the kitchen, presumably to retrieve said expensive vodka. Two minutes later he’s back, holding it aloft like a trophy, and with a triumphant look on his face. “Got it.”

I’m not sure drinking vodka with Rafael is a good idea, but what the hell. It’s been a shitshow of a day so far. Who knows how long Enzo will be gone, and what he’ll be doing. Although of course I know what he’s doing. He’s killing Ethan Fiorelli. And painfully I hope. A better woman might feel some compassion for what that piece of human excrement is about to endure, but I’m no such woman. He raped me and let his brother take the fall. And Tommy was a good man.

Rafael pours me a generous measure, and I down it in one gulp, smacking my lips together and slamming my glass back down on the counter for a refill. “You always could hold your liquor,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, well, I had to learn something from my father, right?”

His chestnut-brown eyes sparkle. “I like to think Angelo and me taught you a little about holding your liquor too. Do you remember that time we stole Pop’s best cognac?”

The memory makes me snicker. “Yeah, I do. You were only fifteen and we got so drunk that Enzo found us trying to swim in the fountains at the Falcone estate.”

Rafael snorts a laugh. “Pop was so mad.”

I nod, lip trapped between my teeth as I stop a snort from bubbling out of me too. “He was raging.”

“Enzo calmed him down though.” He knocks back his drink. “Always looking out for us.”

The happy memory is suddenly swallowed up by sadness. He did, until the one time I really needed him to.

“Hey!” Rafael nudges my arm, snapping me from my melancholy, his eyes sparkling with unbridled delight. “Do you still love karaoke too?”

A memory of him and me at his eighteenth birthday party belting out Taylor Swift songs at the tops of our lungs comes rushing back to me, making sadness and regret snake through my veins. Maybe it’s the vodka clouding my judgment, but karaoke would be a whole lot of fun actually. “We’re not allowed to leave the penthouse. Enzo will lose his mind if we do.”

“We don’t have to. He has a karaoke machine here somewhere.”

He might as well have just told me that elephants are purple. “He. Does. Not.”

Rafael lets out a wicked laugh. “He does. We had a party here at New Year’s and I convinced him to get one.”

I laugh too, definitely the effects of the vodka. Or maybe it’s the idea of the Medici brothers rocking out to karaoke all night. Whatever it is, this is exactly the distraction I need.

Chapter

Thirty

ENZO

Ethan Fiorelli lives in a run-down apartment block in Charleston Heights, on the kind of street where nobody opens the door if they hear a scream. Angelo works this area a lot, but I don’t have much cause to come here as a rule. I do, however, have cause to keep tabs on Ethan Fiorelli, even if not for this reason.

The stairwell smells like stale urine and old cigarettes, and the bulb on the second floor flickers on and off, a distinct tink sound every time it goes black. I come to a stop outside Apartment 22. The door has a crack running diagonally across the frame, like someone’s kicked it in at least once before and nobody’s bothered to fix it. Inside there’s the muted sound of a TV. I press my palm flat against the wood, just to feel if he’s close, if the floor creaks under him, if he even knows I’m here yet.

He doesn’t.

I don’t bother to knock because he doesn’t deserve any kind of warning. The door gives way on the second kick, swinging in against a wall covered in unidentifiable stains. The stench of the place hits me before anything else—old food and stale sweat. Takeout containers are stacked in the sink, an ashtray sits overflowing onto a coffee table ringed with stains from coffee mugs or beer bottles. It smells like filth.

He’s walking out of what I assume to be the bathroom, scratching at his balls. I watch the recognition cross his face, see it curdle into something between fear and sheer panic. He opens his mouth and makes a strange, garbled noise, like the sound is stuck in his throat. For some reason, he makes a run for the front door, like I would possibly just allow him to fly right past me. He’s a big guy, at least six foot like his brother, even if he’s a lot skinnier these days, but I’m so filled with rage I could put The Mountain himself on his ass right now. I push Ethan back and he stumbles over his own feet, falling over the sofa and landing with his ass and legs in the air. He jumps up quickly, rights himself, then holds out his hands like that will any way protect him from what’s about to happen.

“Enzo,” he says, trying to inject his voice with a little friendly cheer, even as it trembles. “What are you doing here?”

“You don’t know?”