Page 10 of Wicked Mistletoe

“Your first mission is Rafael Moretti.”

2

RAFAEL

“Their network?” I ask Enzo, my second-in-command, as we walk down the deserted East Harlem street. The chill December air bites at my face, and the only sound around is the rhythmic tap of our shoes on the cracked pavement. Normally, this place would be buzzing, but not today. Not after Michael sent out that little encrypted message to every business and resident in the area.

The message was simple: disappear, or risk being collateral damage. And they listened. Smart move on their part—I’d hate to scrape some poor bastard’s brains off the sidewalk just because they couldn’t take a hint.

“Scrambled,” he assures me. “Those fuckers won’t send so much as a fucking emoji in or out.”

Good.Giovanni Conti and his pathetic excuse for a crew are sitting ducks, trapped in their own little cage. No more squirming out of my grasp, no more playing hide and seek like they've been doing for the past few weeks. No more distractions. The old bastard’s been a thorn in my side for too long, the biggest obstacle in my path to owning this city. And I’m donefucking around with him. It’s time to rip that thorn out and crush it.

I’ve got other, more pressing shit to deal with—namely a girl. A girl who deserves myfullattention.

But first, I have to deal with this bastard.

We stop in front of the so-called “quaint” little Italian restaurant I know he’s holing up in. My lip curls in disgust at the over-the-top festive crap plastered across the storefront—flashing red, green, and blue lights practically assaulting my eyeballs.Fucking Christmas. A few twinkling bulbs and some cheap-ass tinsel can’t mask the rot festering in this city.

But no worries. I’ve got a gift for Conti. Just not the kind you’ll find under a tree.

With a quick nod, one of my men jogs forward to test the door handle. Locked—as if that flimsy piece of metal could keep me out. Idiots.

I yank my Glock from my waist holster and point it straight at the lock, then fire.

Bang! Bang!

Once, twice, until the thing bursts apart. The boom of the gunshots shatters the morning silence, and the air thickens with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

No silencer. I could’ve used one, sure. But where’s the fun in that? I want Conti to know the boogeyman is coming for him. I want him shaking in his designer shoes, knowing I’ve got him trapped and his only way out is zipped up in a body bag. And I want every fucking dickhead in this godforsaken neighborhood to understand exactly what happens when you fuck with Rafael Moretti.

Lowering my gun, I step back as my men kick the door open and flood into the restaurant. Their orders are clear; everyone inside is fair game, except Giovanni fucking Conti. He’s mine.

A symphony of chaos erupts. Screams cut through the air, blending with the rapid crack of gunfire and the jingle of Christmas tunes drifting from the restaurant’s old, tinny speakers. The whole scene is almost laughable. “Deck the Halls” playing while bodies hit the floor. My lips creep into a savage grin at the twisted irony as I step over the carnage, Enzo by my side, kicking dead bodies out of my way like they’re nothing more than discarded Christmas wrapping paper.

My eyes zero in on the refrigerator at the back—bingo. The rumored hiding spot of Conti’s little rat hole. Enzo throws his weight against it, but the damn thing doesn’t budge an inch. Figures. Conti’s too slippery for anything that easy. I signal to the three other men behind me, and they rush forward, grunting and straining against the metal hulk, their efforts drowned out by the ongoing firefight.

A frown creases my brow. Then it hits me—maybe the secret entrance isn’t behind the fridge. Maybe it’sinsideit.

Clever, Conti. But not clever enough.

“Stop,” I command, then yank the door open, and immediately recoil from the godawful stench.

Steeling myself, I power through, shoving aside strings of rotten meat. And sure enough, there it is: a wall.A wall inside a refrigerator.

“Bastard really thought he was untouchable,” I mutter as Enzo squeezes his bulk into the cramped space and gives the false wall a push. It slides open with surprising ease, revealing a dark hole beyond. A fitting hole for a rat like Giovanni.

Enzo takes a step back, and I duck my head to go through.

This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

As soon as I cross the threshold, a bullet whizzes past my ear. White-hot rage explodes in my chest.Motherfucker.

Immediately, I snap my gun up. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I growl, pulling the trigger.

The shot echoes, followed by a sharp howl of agony. I slap the light switch on the wall, illuminating the pathetic scene before me. And there he is—Giovanni Conti, sprawled on the floor clutching his bleeding shoulder, his gun on the floor just out of reach. I stalk towards him, savoring each step, and kick the weapon away. “If you were going to shoot at me,” I drawl, pressing my Glock against his sweaty temple, “you should have aimed for my head.”

He whimpers, and I take a step back, disappointed at the lack of fight. “Is this it? The great Don Conti?Pathetic.”

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