Page 58 of Mafia King's Forbidden Obsession

I step into the room, gun pointed at him before he even realizes he’s not alone.

“Ezra Marino,” he says, his voice cracking with surprise. He tries to act calm, but I can see the fear in his eyes. He wasn’t expecting me.

I stay where I am, not lowering the gun. “You’ve been busy.”

He sets his pen and jotter down slowly, raising his hands in a mock show of surrender. “I’m just doing my job, Mr. Marino. You know how this works.”

I take a step closer, the aim of my gun not wavering from his head. My steps are slow and deliberate. He gulps, his hands shake just slightly, and the act rekindles the anger I felt in the office. The seemingly almighty task force head is a fucking pussy.

“Do I? Because I don’t understand how your job involves Russo.”

His face twitches, just for a second, but I catch it. He knows he’s cornered.

“You’re grasping at straws,” he tries to sound confident. “It won’t be long now before I finally have you behind bars. You’ll pay for all the illegal activities you’ve been carrying out. You’ll pay for your sins.”

“Tsvetok Smerti. What dealings do you have with him?” I ignore his rants, gritting my teeth as my thumb grazes the trigger.

I don’t give him time to process my words and toss the file on the table between us. It lands with a heavy thud, the papers spilling out. His eyes flick to the evidence, his face going pale as he realizes what’s in front of him.

“I’ve got proof of you doing deals with a drug dealer whom you’re supposed to lock up.” My voice is deathly low. “You’re not walking out of this.”

He stares at the papers for a moment. I see the wheels turn in his head before his expression hardens, his jaw clenching.

“You think this changes anything?” he sneers, trying to regain control. “You’re still going down, Ezra. It’s only a matter of time.”

I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “You’d better start talking and tell me where Russo and Smerti are, or by God, you’ll regret it.”

Before I can react, his hand shoots towards the inside of his sweater. My brain goes into overdrive, he’s reaching for his gun. I don’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

My silencer suppresses the sound of the gunshot from reverberating throughout the house. He lets out a grunt as the bullet guts his side. He falls back into the armchair while holding his side, blood oozing through his fingers, tainting the wool sweater.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say, taking a step closer to him.

I don’t see his other hand slip under his sweater until the metallic glint of a gun emerges. A split second later, the sharp bang of gunfire shatters the air. My heart races as the sound of a gunshot echoes in my ears.

In an instant, a blinding pain explodes in my arm, sharp and blinding. I stagger back, clutching my arm, but I don’t drop my gun. Blood seeps through my fingers as I hiss at the pain.

Fucking hell!

He attempts to fire at me once more, but I’m already in motion. I shoot him directly in the chest this time, a wave of satisfaction filling my guts as he starts to jerk, sputtering crimson liquid from his mouth. Blood flows from the hole in his chest and slowly drenches his sweater. The gun falls from his loose grip, but the bastard is still struggling to breathe.

I don’t wait for him to take another breath. In two strides, I’m in front of him. His eyes strain to stay open. I let him have one last glance at me before firing again, this time at his head. He immediately grows limp.

The room is silent now, except for the pounding of my heart and the faint ringing in my ears from the shootout.

“You should’ve stayed out of my way,” I grit out.

I stand over him, breathing hard, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. The ache in my left arm intensifies, a burning sensation searing through it. I look down and see an ocean ofblood soaking through my white sleeve. If I stay here any longer, I could bleed to death.

Instinctively, I reach for my phone. The device is slippery beneath my fingers and almost slips from my hand, but I clench my hold against it.

I dial one on my speed dial. It rings twice—long, drawn-out seconds—before someone picks up on the other end.

“Get our operations moving again immediately. And get the cleanup boys to my location right now.” My voice is rough. The cleanup boys would discard every piece of evidence linking me to this location. The last thing we want is the investigation of Frank Paterson's death leading to my doorstep.

There’s a pause on the other end, then Elio’s voice filters through. “Capito, capo. E tu(Understood, Boss. What about you)?”

Pain spreads from the spot to other parts of my arm. I can feel my whole arm growing weak and heavy, each pulse weaker than the last, but it’ll do just fine to get me through the drive.

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