Chapter 1
When Gianni heard the big black dog bark once, he must have leaped straight out of bed in his peach-colored silk pajamas, slid into his embroidered silk dressing gown, and grabbed the short-barrel shotgun as he dashed for the stairs.
The Don, my father, said he wanted Gianni Crespi scared. Taught a lesson.
Well, I did that. He was scared. And he won’t make those mistakes again.
He was furious at first. Of course. I broke into his big house. Got past all his fancy alarms.
I bribed his lovely cane corso guard dog with a steak. Instead of teaching and training his dog properly, the idiot just kept the poor beast hungry.
By the time the big man bustled his way down the stairs, I was in the dark waiting for him, hidden in his big, movie-star sunken lounge. He burst in, swinging the shotgun around like he was in a rap video. He should have completed the picture with a cigar clamped in the side of his greedy grin, but I guess he didn’t have time to fire one up.
I waited, quiet, behind the door.
As soon as he swaggered in, I flashed all of his movie-star spotlights on.
He squinted, dazzled and blinded. And I whacked him hard in the face with his heavy movie-star black wood door.
After that it was easy enough to relieve him of the weapon.
Blinking and waving his arm in front of his eyes, he panicked, staggering and slamming into the frames of his big Warhol prints as he backs against the wall. I think he recognized me, head to toe in black, though I can’t be sure. By then, it didn’t matter, anyway.
The dog whimpered at the window, wanting more steak. Gianni made a murderous lunge at me.
Maybe I’m wired all wrong. Very bad things can get me hot. I have to admit, the look in his face made my pulse hammer. There’s nothing I can do about it. Bad things like the glare in Gianni’s eyes — the mix of raw, spitting rage with a burning edge of suppressed terror.
That’s when he got properly scared. The unmistakeable white-eye stretch of fear when he caught the glint in my eyes and the flash of my blade. I pulled the knife up to make him stop.
But by the time he saw it, it was too late. He knew.
I jumped back. The hot gush is fierce and it’s horribly messy, and it’s hard to move while his hands grip tight on my throat. He trembled and shuddered but he would not let go. Not for a long time.
The dog crouched outside and fell silent.
It’s funny how I knew when it was over, because the cane corso started up a low, rhythmic howl. They’re a great breed for guard dogs, but Crespi trained him by the dumb ignorant brute method.
I don’t mean the dog was a dumb brute — he’s just a dog, doing the best he knows how. No, he trained him by the method a dumb brute would use.
So, I did what I was told, but then I took it a bit farther. Like I always do.
I didn’t even get to show Gianni the photograph.