Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
S AINT
Christ, it was almost as hard to get her out of my car as it was to get her in it in the first place.
I watch as Emerald hurries into the casino and straight into the arms of Ronnie Mainetto. And through the door that remains ajar, I watch her boyfriend embrace her and kiss her long and hard.
When I see this, something tightens in my chest, sharp and unexpected. But I shove it down, and closing my eyes, my grip tightens on the steering wheel.
Eighteen. Fuck, she’s young. Too young to be mixed up in all this shit. But I shouldn’t be surprised given how most of us get started in it all.
I was born into the Veneti Family, which means I was born into the Imperiosi mafia. And working as their hitman is the only thing that keeps me fucking sane.
But Emerald Fiorelli… She had a delicious defiant tilt to her chin, and I’m not going to lie, it did something to me. And watching her silently fume in the seat beside me during the drive gave me a new kind of thrill.
And I can’t help my mind wandering back to the reason I met a girl in a stolen gold dress today…
TWO DAYS EARLIER
A painful memory flits through my head, but I shove the thought into that black box in my mind. Ramming it as deep and as far down as I can.
A heavy exhale leaves my nostrils as I settle on the rooftop.
No distractions. No relationships. No feelings.
Those are the three rules I live by. Distractions are for weak men. Relationships make you sloppy. And feelings turn you into a fucking fool.
I do none of them. How many men have I had to off because they involved themselves with the wrong woman? Or worse, because they let their emotions cloud their judgment so that they do stupid shit like Romanelli here did? Not me. That bullshit is just asking for trouble.
My eyes focus back on the image through my binoculars, watching the target in his house from the empty property opposite. Empty because I killed off the owner a few hours ago.
I spare a glance down at my watch. Five minutes and forty-two seconds until he takes his final breath. And I can’t fucking wait.
A smile curves my lips as I watch him shove yet another couple thousand into the black duffle bag. Not his money, but ours.
My smirk only grows as the hands rotate slowly on my watch.
I’ve got it planned down to the very second.
Every action and interruption accounted and planned for.
Like a chessboard—where every move’s been calculated and opposed.
Because that’s the only way you can win a game like this.
As my watch hits 10 p.m., I start my timer to count down the last three hundred seconds of his measly life. Five minutes—that’s all he’s got left.
I hack into his security system and disable it. And a beautiful game of chess begins.
He lifts up his phone as it flashes with the notification that his security system’s been breached. His eyes widen as he punches a number into his cell’s speed dial.
I jam the signal.
He snatches up his landline to call for help.
I cut the power.
He grabs his radio.
I turn the waves into a shitty pattern of static.
He reaches for his panic button.
I cut the line to the battery.
He yells out for his best money can buy private security.
I use my sniper rifle and fire. One drops like a marionette with cut strings. The second barely has time to turn before a hole opens in his forehead. The last three scramble for cover—but I’m faster. Three shots. Three bodies.
I jog out of the property and across to his villa. My boots hit the pristine limestone wall, and I bolt over it and land silently on my feet.
Show time.
One twist of a neck. And the guard goes down.
I chance a glance at the windows where Romanelli is pacing in his study. My lip twitches as I dispose of the remaining two guards in a similar fashion.
I tilt my neck until it cracks, releasing the tension. My shoulders roll back before I begin stacking the bodies together. Easier for clean up if they’re all in a nice little pile. The cleaning boys should thank me for being so fucking considerate. They won’t, but a guy can hope.
I make my way into Romanelli’s luxurious villa.
It’s taken me six days to prepare everything for tonight. Meticulous. Nothing left to chance.
Romanelli thinks he’s smart. But I’m fucking smarter.
As I approach the study, the door bursts open, and the blustering idiot curses me out in Italian. Pleading with God and me to save him.
But God’s not listening—and the devil doesn’t care.
He scrambles back to his safe for the pearly hand pistol he’s stashed there for safekeeping.
A gun that I’ve already got tucked into the waistband of my combats.
I shake my head, lifting my shirt to show him his pistol—the only chance he thought he had at surviving.
Check.
Sixty seconds remain.
He tries to run.
And bullets in his kneecaps keep him from going anywhere.
“Please…” he croaks in broken English.
This is the part I hate. The groveling and sniveling. As if that’ll fucking sway me. It never does. I don’t fucking care.
“I—I didn’t know…”
“Not my problem,” I clip in a bored tone.
“I can pay you.”
“Nah. Not interested.”
“My knees are fucking killing me… Oh Jesus, why did you have to shoot me? What can I give you…?”
I shake my head. It doesn’t work, but they always try it. It’s as tedious as it’s predictable. And I miss the element of challenge in it all. While no two hits are ever the same, men are awfully unimaginative when faced with the barrel of a gun.
“Send Saint Peter my regards, figlio di puttana.”
The flash of the muzzle fills the space.
The choke of his scream dies abruptly.
And the thud of his body sounds in the study as he falls back.
Checking my watch, it’s all run perfectly down to the last single second. Like fucking clockwork.
Check and fucking mate.
A quietness descends. Thank fucking God that I don’t have to listen to any more of his fucking pathetic pleas. Maybe I need to send these guys a handbook of advice: One Hundred Original Things To Say If An Assassin Ever Invites Himself Into Your Home.
I relish the silence. My eyes slip shut, and I let out a breath.
Pathetic fucker. I kick his foot away from mine, shaking my head. My lips curl into a cruel smile of satisfaction. It should bother me how well I do this. How easy it comes. A better man would be haunted by the number of times I’ve planned someone’s death down to his last strangled second, the sheer number of men I’ve sent on their way to Saint Peter—although it’d be much more accurate to say that I sent them on their merry way to convene with Hades.
But I’m not a better man. And it doesn’t fucking bother me.
I’m a Veneti. A hitman for the Imperiosi. The damn best hitman at that. Feelings and guilt have no place in my life. Especially not over this fucker. He should’ve been more careful who he tried to screw over.
The flat of my tongue runs along my teeth as I shove my gun into the back of my waistband, tossing Romanelli’s fucking joke of a handgun on top of his body.
With another small exhale, I turn toward the exit, reaching for my phone at the same time as it starts to vibrate.
Shit. It’s Christian.
I mentally scold myself. Things have been so hectic here that I haven’t had time to really catch up with him lately, and I’m sure he’s probably wondering why he hasn’t heard from me. Because as well as being my cousin, he’s now also the Capo of the Imperiosi.
I sandwich my phone between my ear and shoulder as I jog down the stairs. “What’s wrong?” I ask as I get into my car, not bothering with pleasantries. This isn’t a social call. It’s a problem. One I’m going to have to clean up.
“You need to come back.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “Back? To New York?”
“Yes.”
New York… I know where my train of thought is going, so I shake my head. My past is a closet full of pain that I’m not ready to reopen. “An assignment?”
“Can’t tell you over the phone.”
Well, fuck, that’s bad.
My lip curls at the idea of even having to step foot in fucking New York. I clench my jaw and shake my head. There’s a reason I left New York and made my home base in Philadelphia. I wanted as much distance as possible from the guilt. From the memories.
The ghosts that haunt the city make bile burn in the back of my throat. I shove the sensation down. Locking the feeling that claws my chest back into that black box that rests in the recesses of my mind where it belongs.
Calm. Cool. Indifferent.
That’s what I turned myself into. A monster who looks at the world from the outside, who doesn’t let his emotions interfere with his job. This is no fucking different.
“I’m dealing with the Romanelli issue right now.”
“It’s important,” Christian clips. “And honestly? You’re one of the few people I can trust until I know more.” He’s quiet for a split second. “My gut is telling me the problem is being caused by one of our own.”
His words give me pause. When his father was still in charge, the Imperiosi was run like a well-oiled machine. It was unheard of to hear about someone going rogue and going against the family. And while Christian’s words are alarming, they definitely aren’t surprising. I don’t doubt that members are testing him simply because he’s younger and still getting adjusted to his new role as Capo, but he was born for this. As much as I don’t want to step foot in New York, I know I have to put my own personal shit aside for this.
“How soon do you need me there?” I ask on a sigh. It’s already late here.
“I’ll send a jet for you. Once you land, a car will be waiting to bring you to me,” he rattles off. “It’ll be like old times before you decided to ditch me and run off to Philly.”
I grind my teeth as memories try to swirl to the forefront of my mind. “You know I had my reasons, Christian,” I say, my voice tight.
“I know. At least this job will give you a distraction with your birthday coming up and all. I know how you feel about celebrating it.”
I clench my jaw so tight that it aches, a flurry of fragmented memories cracking open and clawing at the edges of my mind.
The gunshots.
The screams.
The blood.
So much fucking blood. Warm and sticky on my hands. I can still feel it…
“Saint?” Christian calls out, his voice like an inflatable raft saving me from the violent waves of memories threatening to drown me.
“Yep.” I blow out a long breath as I focus on trying to calm my racing heart.
“I’ll see you soon.”
I drag a hand through my dark hair, wishing I could say no, but saying no to the Capo isn’t an option. He isn’t making the request as my cousin; he’s making the request as my boss. At the end of the day, I still have a job to do. “Yeah,” I murmur.
“Good,” he says and hangs up.
There are no goodbyes as Christian and I disconnect. Just the lingering pit in my stomach.
Clenching my jaw, I start the car, letting the purr of the engine soothe some of the tension within me. Speeding from the villa, I hit up the clean-up crew as I take the turns with a controlled ease, using the rumble of the car to ease the tightness building in the back of my neck.
I drive the long distance back to the apartment I keep in Italy. I sit in complete silence, wanting to be alone with my thoughts before I return to the one place I prefer to avoid.
Can’t run forever, I think to myself with more than a trace of bitterness, my hand tightening on the steering wheel. Even though I know that thought to be true, it still doesn’t stop me from wanting it not to be.
Before I get to my place, I stop off to collect my two dogs from the dogsitter.
The moment I ring the doorbell, I hear the familiar scratching of paws against the floor. My heart lifts. I’ve only been gone a few days, but it feels like forever.
The door swings open, and in a flash of fur and excitement, my two Huskies practically tackle me to the ground. Their black and white coats blur together as they jump up, tails wagging wildly and paws propped up against me. I drop to my knees, laughing and letting them smother me in that special way of theirs.
“Hey, I missed you too,” I murmur, rubbing behind their ears. They lean into my touch, their icy blue eyes shining and their velvety noses nudging against me. And the weight in my chest eases a little.
When I arrive at my apartment, I throw together a bag with some clothes, my laptop, and a spare gun. As I pack, my mind runs through every possible scenario I might face when I get to New York.
Has Christian found a traitor among us? Is someone doing shady deals that jeopardize our operations? Do we have a rat?
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself,” I murmur out loud. I’m sure it’s something serious, or Christian wouldn’t be calling me all the way to New York. But it definitely makes me uneasy to know that someone among us can’t be trusted.
Once I have my bag ready, I stop in the living room to grab a phone charger. My eyes fall on the photo that sits on the shelf, the beaming smiles sending a knife through my heart.
It’s a miracle that I still even have the photo. The mere sight of it is a constant reminder and a continual cause of pain every single time I see it.
I swallow the growing knot in my throat and force my gaze away. Making a beeline for the front door, I slip into my made man role as I flip off the light and prepare myself for whatever awaits me in New York.
“Fuck me,” I exhale. Looks like I’m going back to New York. Home fucking sweet home.
* * *
As soon as I land in New York, Christian has a soldier deliver an SUV for my use, together with instructions to head straight over to his casino.
I already feel worn out. Since Christian became Capo, it’s been one fucking issue after another with all the power plays going on right now within the Imperiosi.
I’m driving when my cell rings. Glancing at the screen, my heart sinks when I see it’s a video call from one of my stupido cousins, Ronnie.
The problem with our family is how many fucking cousins we have. I’m at least fourth cousins with this guy, although I can’t even remember exactly how we’re related.
I would definitely ignore the call if it was just some random relative, but Ronnie’s part of the Imperiosi, and that means his call is almost certainly work-related. I seem to recall he’s one of our younger members; he must be around twenty.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Oh, um, hey there. My name’s Ronnie Mainetto ? —”
“I can read, you know,” I clip. “Your name flashed up on my screen.”
“Okay, good, good. Well, I’m just calling you because you’re my sixth cousin twice removed via Great Aunt Edna ? —”
“I don’t care how we’re goddamn related,” I snap, already regretting answering his call. “What do you want?”
“I’m with Christian right now, and he says you’re near Casino Venice…” He zooms his screen out so that I can see our Capo just behind him.
“Yeah, so?”
“Can you do me a solid and pick up my girlfriend who’s near there? Her name’s Emerald, and she should be arriving at the casino anytime soon.”
I take a deep breath and tell myself to count to ten, but I only make it to two before replying. “Do I look like a fucking Uber to you, Ronnie? What makes you think I want to be a chauffeur for your girlfriend?”
Before he can answer, I raise my voice a little. “Hey Christian, is this guy serious?”
Christian appears next to him on the screen. “He needs her picked up, and I told him you’re nearby.”
“I’m not here to be a babysitter or play fucking taxi driver for teenagers,” I grit out.
“We’ve just been informed by one of our contacts that the Feds might be about to get a warrant out on Casino Venice,” Christian says. “Emerald’s on her way to work there, so we want her picked up by one of our guys before she gets caught up in any raid and arrested by the Feds.”
Staring at the screen, I narrow my eyes at him.
“Can you just stop being a grumpy asshole for once in your life?” Christian says. “Em’s practically family. She and Jacquetta are best friends.” Jacquetta is Christian’s niece.
“One time, and that’s it,” I mutter. I’m busy enough and don’t have time to carpool some annoying fuck’s girlfriend. “Well? What does she look like?”
Ronnie rattles off a description. “Uh, she’s really pretty, slim, dark hair, and she’s got these amazing green eyes…”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. He could be describing any of hundreds of women in this huge city. It’ll just be easier to look up her photo via the background checks the Imperiosi do on all its members’ girlfriends and mistresses.
“And where exactly will I find her?”
“The location app on her phone says she’s riding the subway right now, so she should be arriving at and exiting the station by the casino in around twenty minutes.”
“Okay, got it,” I sigh.
“Can you tell her ? —”
“You’re already pushing it by asking me to pick her up, Ronnie. Do I look like a fucking messenger to you? Use your phone and tell her yourself.”
“But—”
I disconnect the call before he can say anything else that will annoy me. He’s lucky that Christian considers this girl as good as family, otherwise I’d be leaving her to take her chances with the Feds.
Thanks to the light traffic, I make it in no time to the subway station near the casino. Bringing up the Imperiosi background check on her, I scroll through the information on my phone.
The photograph of her shows a girl with inky black hair and wide green eyes. I read through some of the summary on her: Emerald Fiorelli; eighteen years old; daughter of Adagio Fiorelli and Ariana Fiorelli; lives at her mom’s apartment; and works part time at Casino Venice.
I click onto the photos of her home and scroll through the rooms which show nothing interesting until I reach the photographs taken inside her bedroom—and specifically the photo that shows her open closet door.
Because lined up in there are rows and rows of shiny dresses. And I can see the majority of them still have security tags attached.
Sitting in my car, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel while I keep a sharp eye out for the girl.
And soon enough, I catch sight of a woman who stands out from the crowd, hurrying up the steps from the station.
She’s got a stunning face, glossy black hair, and her beautiful, full curves are clad in a short and sparkly gold dress.
She matches the photo on the file, and I know that I found the woman I’ve been looking for…
Shaking my head, I come back to the present. I can still smell her scent in my car. It’s like chocolate mints—sweet and spicy at the same time.
She’s gone inside the casino and disappeared from view now. And I wonder why I’m still thinking about her. After all, it’s not as if I’m likely to ever see her again…