Page 190 of Made for Sinners

“Requiescat in pace,” I murmured.

The shot was muffled by the suppressor, but it still rang in my ears.

Giovanni slumped forward, blood pooling beneath the chair.

I stood there for a moment, the gun still warm in my hand, my heart steady. Then I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a single drop of blood from my shoe.

Italian leather. My father always said it mattered. “You don’t walk into a room looking like a mess and expect to be taken seriously.” He’d taught me how to polish my shoes before he taught me how to shoot.

I turned to the shadows. “Clean this up.”

Two of my men stepped forward. Silent. Efficient. One of them covered the body with a tarp. The other began untying the restraints.

“Make sure he’s found with dignity,” I said. “He was still one of ours.”

They nodded.

I holstered the gun and pulled my phone from my pocket. Three missed calls from Dante.

I sighed and slid the phone back into my pocket.

The car was waiting outside, engine idling, headlights casting long shadows across the gravel.

“Take the long way,” I told my driver as I climbed in. “Past the port.”

He nodded and pulled away from the warehouse, the tires crunching softly beneath us.

I watched the building disappear in the rearview mirror.

Another piece off the board.

That’s what it means to be underboss. You don’t just carry out orders. You make the hard decisions when no one else wants to. You clean up the messes. You protect the family—even from itself.

The port came into view, sprawling and silent beneath the glow of sodium lights. Containers stacked like tombstones, cranes frozen mid-motion like steel giants asleep at their posts. It looked peaceful from a distance—orderly, quiet.

But I knew better.

I knew what was buried under those stacks of steel. What had been smuggled in and out of this place for decades. What deals had been made in the shadows. What blood had been spilled between the cracks in the pavement.

I rolled the window down slightly, letting the salt air cut through the lingering scent of gunpowder and sweat. The breeze was cool, but it didn’t clear my head. Nothing would. Not tonight.

“Slow down,” I told the driver.

He eased off the gas, and we coasted along the outer edge of the port. I scanned the fences, the gates, the towers. My men were out there—watching, waiting. Always on alert. Always ready. But even with all that, we’d still missed it.

Giovanni had betrayed us. Quietly. Methodically. And I’d missed it.

That was on me.

I’d known him since I was a kid. He used to bring me pastries from his wife’s bakery when I was too young to understand what he did for a living. He’d taught me how to play chess. How to bluff. How to lie without blinking.

And he’d lied to me.

I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes for a moment.

I could still hear the shot. Still see the way his body slumped forward, lifeless. Still feel the weight of the gun in my hand.

I didn’t regret it.

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