Chapter 42
Luciano
We were parked two clicks out, behind a line of pine trees, just shy of a crumbling dock on Lake Panasoffkee. The house wasn’t visible from the road. But that was the point.
Russo had chosen isolation instead of fighting the war he started. His sons were dead because of him.
There were men inside with him. At least six. Maybe more.
I crouched near the tree line, watching through a scope. Brooker stood beside me, chewing gum like we weren’t thirty feet from a bloodbath. Saint was quieter than usual, eyes scanning the tree line, dead calm.
This was our second strike in three days.
Before Ava, these missions were the only way I ever felt anything. But now?
The buzz was muted and dull, like music under a closed door. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her warmth. Her voice. The way she touched me. Her taste.
I blinked once and reset. Focus, Luciano.
I tapped my earpiece.
“Two by the dock,” I said. “They look like they’re going in through the back door…”
Brooker raised his rifle. “You want the welcome party?”
“No. We’re going in quiet. There are other cabins nearby.”
Saint cracked his knuckles. “I’ll take care of the two in the back.”
“Leave the father to me,” I said.
We approached, silent as ghosts. We all had our way in. Brooker climbed to the second-story window. Saint was ahead of me, going through the back door. I entered, stepping over two bodies he’d put down quietly.
The air smelled like bleach and old wood.
“Luciano,” Saint’s voice came through my earpiece. “It was just him, guards, and the son. They’re upstairs. Third door.”
“Status?”
“Bleeding.”
The upstairs hallway was quiet.
I found everyone in a bedroom at the end. Giovanni Russo. Thinner than I remembered. Hair still Greasy. He was tied to a chair, sobbing. His son, Angelo, was already slumped in a chair, blood trailing down his temples. Saint had been gentle.
Russo Sr. looked up when I walked in.
“Luciano,” he wheezed. “Let’s talk.”
I shut the door behind me. Brooker didn’t move, just kept the gun trained on Russo’s head. Saint looked up briefly from his phone and gave a lazy nod before returning to whatever he was doing.
I walked to the middle of the room.
Giovanni shifted, the chair creaking beneath him. “You’re smarter than this. You don’t need to—”
I backhanded him.
His lip split. Blood welled.
Saint didn’t look up. Brooker chuckled.
“You had your chance,” I said, my voice flat. “The deal we made was sufficient.”
Giovanni blinked fast. “It wasn’t—”
I hit him again.
“It’s no use, Russo.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to do this.”
“But I want to,” I said.
I took my knife from my boot. Pressed the blade to Giovanni’s neck—applying just a whisper of pressure.
Russo’s eyes darted. Panic bled into the whites. “You kill me, you’ll make more enemies than you know. Can you afford that?”
“No,” I said. “But you’re still dying tonight.”
Russo looked up at me, eyes wide with the kind of fear that made men bargain with ghosts. His breath came fast—shallow. The knife slid across his throat clean. A crimson line bloomed beneath his jaw. His body jerked once. Then again. Then stilled.
Brooker let out a low whistle from across the room. “Guess that’s that.”
Blood pooled around Don Russo’s chair, soaking into the cracked wood.
I didn’t linger. No parting words. No final glances. No ceremony.
Nobody followed.
I left the cabin and jogged the mile back to where the three cars were parked. I slid into my car, the door thudding shut behind me.
The engine roared. I drove alone. No music. No thoughts I wanted to keep. Just the hum of the road.
By the time I stepped into my father’s estate, the sun was threatening the horizon. My clothes clung to me, stiff with blood. My boots left muddy prints on the marble.
No one stopped me. No one dared.
I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and pushed open the door.