Page 16 of Shot For Mercy

I nod, stubbing out my cigarette, and he makes a face. He doesn’t like it when I smoke. Says it’ll kill me someday. The way I see it, I probably won’t make it to thirty. Not with the way I work for Emiliano. I’m bound to get killed or end up back in prison sooner than I’d like. And I know if I go back to that place, I’ll go fucking insane.

Matteo snaps his fingers in front of my face, effectively breaking me out of my thoughts, and I narrow my eyes at him. “Do that again, and I’ll break all your fingers.”

“Talk dirty to me.” He winks, then goes ahead of me.

I was supposed to do this job alone. After all, Emiliano demanded I do it. But Matteo wanted to spend time with me and wouldn’t take no for an answer when I told him I’d be busy with this. He said we could spend some time together afterwards, and it sounded like the perfect time to break the news to him, so I said yes.

My arm shoots out, halting him in place, and I narrow my eyes at the sight in front of us. There, about two hundred feet in front of us, stands Maxim, the Bratva’s Pakhan. You’d think he’d send someone here to do the dirty work, but no, here he stands in all of his glory. Vulnerable and ready to be killed.

“Don’t,” Matty says through gritted teeth. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“Matty—” I sigh. “He’s right fucking there.”

“Don’t start a war,” Matteo growls. “You already got even with Andrey.”

“Look at me,” I snap, and he does. His brown eyes gaze into mine, and I grab his face roughly. “He almost killed you. We’llneverbe even.”

“You’re so fucking dramatic, babe,” he mumbles, and I roll my eyes. “Always defending my honor.”

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I tell him, ignoring his sweet nickname. I don’t have time to let him down easily right now. “They’re fishy as hell.”

“Is that…?” Matteo squints, and I follow his gaze. Sure enough, it’s our client making deals with the Bratva. “What the fuck?”

“Goddamned double-dippers,” I whisper.

We stay back though, especially since our men are in the parking lot, and observe them from a distance. It seems they’re trading drugs, probably opioids, by the look of it. They load all the product into a van, then take off.

Matteo and I quickly make our way to our client, who looks like he’s seen a ghost. I don’t know why he’s so damn surprised; we’re right on time. As always. We’re known for our punctuality, Matteo and I. We’d never mess up a deal. Except for maybe now. I’m tempted to pull out my gun and take care of our little problem.

Matteo seems to know exactly where my head is and whispers, “Don’t do it, Cole. My dad will have our fucking heads. We’ll do this the right way and ignore it for tonight. I’m sure he’ll find a way to punish this motherfucker.”

Fucking fine.

“Hey there, Armando,” I say with a cheerful lilt to my voice. His eyes widen, and I pretend as if I didn’t see anything. “Here for our merchandise.”

“O-of course,” he replies, looking like he’s three seconds from pissing his pants. He looks terrified, as he should be. No one fucks with the Cosa Nostra. No one fucks with Emiliano either. “They’re right here.”

I text Luca, Emiliano’s right-hand man and the person who raised me, and they bring the van around. Matteo and I watch as our guys load everything up and Armando backs up, his hands raised in defeat.

“I’m not going to kill you.” I smile. “Yet.”

Armando swallows hard, looking absolutely terrified.

“You realize we have to tell my father about this, right?” Matteo asks Armando, but it’s rhetorical.

Armando doesn’t speak; instead, there’s a wet spot on the front of his jeans.

“Matteo, he just fucking pissed himself.” I throw my head back and laugh. “Oh, shit. This is too good.”

“Nasty.” Matteo grimaces. “You scared?”

Armando is still quiet.

“Cat got your tongue?” I ask him, my eyes narrowed on the wet spot. It’s now going down his legs. “Never mind. Don’t speak.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen—” Matteo starts, and I interrupt.

“We’re going to walk away. And you’re not going to sleep tonight—or any night until we come back for you. And we will.” I smile sweetly at the man. “Do you understand?” I ask him in Spanish.

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