Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
ENZO
He bounces on the balls of his toes as I approach.
“So we all set then, King?” He sniffs, wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
Great. Clearly he’s had a line or four today, probably to allow him to grow a set of balls.
I would be better off handling this job alone, and I almost suggest he sits it out, when he speaks again.
“You got the shooters, yeah?” His eyes are wild.
“Shooters? How are old are you? Thirteen?”
He’s too hyped up to register the insult. I open the trunk and hand him a Makarov. He turns it over in his hand, a look of disgust on his face. “What’s this? I prefer a Beretta.”
I scowl at him. “A gun is a fucking gun, Vinny. And besides, as per your father’s request, we are pinning this on the Russians. Russian hitmen.” I take a Makarov for myself. “Russian guns.” I keep a Ruger—the Bertellis’ favored handgun of choice—concealed in my waistband.
“Fine,” he mumbles. “Russian piece of shit.” Then he gets in the car, and I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a breath. Something about today already feels very off and I wish my brothers were with me instead of the useless bag of shit that I got landed with.
I fire off a quick text to Rafael.
I’m headed out. Be on standby in case I need you.
His reply is a thumbs-up emoji.
The club looks deserted from the outside.
No line to get in and no music thumping through the bricks.
This is Sin City, and a place like this should be busy twenty-four hours a day.
Instead, it’s just a stark-black building sitting on a bare stretch of tarmac beneath the glare of the mid-afternoon sun.
The home of the Bertellis’ headquarters, and the place where they believe they’re untouchable because they are a made family.
Even the Russians and the Yakuza aren’t usually insane enough to touch a made family without provocation.
Vinny twitches beside me, reminding me again of his presence and why I hate bringing him to jobs.
Not because he’s nervous; nerves keep a man alive.
But Vinny isn’t nervous. Vinny is incompetent, and there’s a huge difference.
Nervous men pay attention. Vinny has no fucking clue what to do and when to do it. I keep Vinny alive.
The lone guard at the entrance spots us approaching.
He gives me a nod of recognition, but then he spots the don’s son, and his hand moves toward his radio.
Lucky for me, he’s too slow. I grab his wrist, slam him into the wall, and catch the radio before it hits the ground.
The impact knocks the air out of him, and I take the opportunity to quietly snap his neck.
No witnesses. By the time Vinny realizes what’s happened, I’m already through the door and beckoning him to follow.
Behind me, I hear the clumsy fuck trip over the dead man’s legs.
The Bertellis will be in the back room on the top floor of the club, so that’s where I head. As we reach the top of the staircase, another guard steps into our path.
“Hey, what are you—”
My fist lands before the sentence finishes.
His head snaps backward and I drive a shoulder into his chest, sending him toppling over the railing and onto the vacant dance floor below.
A quick glance over the balcony confirms he’s dead, blood and brain matter spread around his head like a gruesome halo.
We head deeper into the club, toward the private room where the Bertellis will be having their weekly poker game and strategy meeting.
I pause for signs of any other movement, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.
Jobs like this aren’t successful because of strength or speed, not really, although people often think that’s all they need.
They’re about observation. Angles and timing.
Understanding a room before you walk into it.
Beside me, Vinny checks his pistol for what must be the fourth time. I watch him for a second. “You know looking at that thing isn’t going to magically turn it into a Beretta. It’s a gun. Aim. Pull the trigger. Job done.”
He frowns, but I press ahead before he can speak.
I can hear voices, and wooden chairs scraping against a concrete floor.
The closer we get to the back room, the clearer the voices become.
The Bertellis are discussing territory and gambling licenses.
One voice dominates the conversation—Oscar.
The capo and head of the family. He sounds so sure of himself, so certain of his future.
I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
My fingers grip the door handle and I take a breath, gun in my other hand and ready to kill.
I’m confident I can take at least two of them out before any of them can even draw a weapon.
And then they’ll respond accordingly, thinking they can easily take me down.
The Bertellis have made noises about how superior they are for years, yet they remain bottom feeders.
Too chaotic and too undisciplined to be any more than what they are.
Oscar’s father, Alonzo Bertelli, was a great man—a capo who inspired confidence and loyalty, but it seems to have skipped every generation since.
They believe their own hype though, and arrogance makes them predictable.
I push open the door, quickly take them in. Five of them sitting around a table. Expensive suits and watches. No security between us and them. Immediately, I notice that Joseph and his cousin Leo aren’t with them. They all look up, probably expecting one of their guards.
I step into view and for a moment nobody speaks.
And in that blissful moment of confusion, I take my first shot.
It hits Anthony Bertelli’s left temple, and he slumps to the floor.
Before a single one of them can react, I put a bullet between Dimitri’s eyes.
Oscar is the first to draw his weapon, and I squeeze off a round into his right shoulder, forcing his gun to clatter to the ground. I need to speak with him.
The other two are clamoring all over themselves, trying to gather their wits enough to act. Vinny stumbles into the room, shoots Michael in the kneecap, and then roars in triumph. Michael responds by pointing his weapon at Vinny, but I drop him before he can pull the trigger.
Oscar is barking orders at the only man left alive, his son Junior.
Junior is cowering behind a chair for cover, his arm peeking out as he points his gun in our direction.
I kick another chair at him, trapping his arm between the two heavy objects, and then I empty a round into his skull too. Now there’s just Oscar.
Keeping my gun trained on his face, I press my thumb into the bullet wound in his shoulder. “Do you have something on Carmine?”
His eyes grow wide with fear and something else, something that looks suspiciously like hope. “Enzo…” He says my name like a prayer.
I drop my voice to a low growl so Vinny doesn’t hear. “Tell me what it is and I might let you live.”
“Carmine and your father, they—”
The crack of a gunshot cuts him off. Parts of Oscar’s skull decorate the wall behind him. Vinny sidles up beside me, looking so fucking pleased with himself I’d like to choke him. “Got him,” he says proudly.
I blink at him. “He wasn’t going anywhere, dipshit.”
He shrugs, blows on the end of his pistol like he’s in some kind of spaghetti Western shoot-out.
I take a deep breath, not because Vinny is a useless prick who’s irritating the hell out of me, but to focus.
The hardest part of any fight isn’t pulling the trigger, it’s preventing the world from shrinking.
Most men develop tunnel vision in these situations, only seeing the threat directly in front of them.
Then someone they never noticed puts a bullet in their head.
“There are two men unaccounted for,” I say.
“Maybe they’re not here,” he suggests.
“They’re here.” I spin around, face the doorway. “One of them probably went for a piss.”
Confirming my theory, Leo Bertelli comes stumbling through the door, clearly having partaken in far too much of the Scotch he imports by the state of him.
He blinks, taking in the bloodbath before him.
And then the fucker runs. Fast. Fear gives people energy.
Not enough, but some. I follow at a steady pace.
He bursts into a small office, and I follow him seconds later.
The room is small and he has nowhere left to go.
He stands behind a desk with a gun in his shaking hand, pointed right at me.
His breathing is labored, his stance unsteady.
One quick squeeze of a trigger and it’s over. He slumps onto the desk face-first. There’s still one Bertelli left though. Joseph. The one I hate more than any of the others.
And then I hear a noise, coming from the end of the hallway, behind a closed door.
A woman’s shriek.
So Joseph has company. Not unusual, but a complication I could do without.
I kick the door in anyway and find Joseph cowering behind her, using her as a human shield.
His beady eyes peek out behind the curtain of her dark hair, and I’m so focused on him, on the job, that it takes me a full three seconds to register her face.
And when I do, the world drops out from under me. Six years of hate and grief slam into me so hard I stagger back a step, gun still raised and pointed in their direction. My brain refuses to make sense of what my eyes are seeing. This can’t be real. She can’t be here. Not with him.