Page 16 of Mafia and Gold Digger

He snatches up his landline to call for help.

I cut the power.

He grabs his radio.

I turn the waves into a shitty pattern of static.

He reaches for his panic button.

I cut the line to the battery.

He yells out for his best money can buy private security.

I use my sniper rifle and fire.One drops like a marionette with cut strings. The second barely has time to turn before a hole opens in his forehead. The last three scramble for cover—but I’m faster. Three shots. Three bodies.

I jog out of the property and across to his villa. My boots hit the pristine limestone wall, and I bolt over it and land silently on my feet.

Show time.

One twist of a neck. And the guard goes down.

I chance a glance at the windows where Romanelli is pacing in his study. My lip twitches as I dispose of the remaining two guards in a similar fashion.

I tilt my neck until it cracks, releasing the tension. My shoulders roll back before I begin stacking the bodies together. Easier for clean up if they’re all in a nice little pile. The cleaning boys should thank me for being so fucking considerate. They won’t, but a guy can hope.

I make my way into Romanelli’s luxurious villa.

It’s taken me six days to prepare everything for tonight. Meticulous. Nothing left to chance.

Romanelli thinks he’s smart. But I’m fucking smarter.

As I approach the study, the door bursts open, and the blustering idiot curses me out in Italian. Pleading with God and me to save him.

But God’s not listening—and the devil doesn’t care.

He scrambles back to his safe for the pearly hand pistol he’s stashed there for safekeeping.

A gun that I’ve already got tucked into the waistband of my combats.

I shake my head, lifting my shirt to show him his pistol—the only chance he thought he had at surviving.

Check.

Sixty seconds remain.

He tries to run.

And bullets in his kneecaps keep him from going anywhere.

“Please…” he croaks in broken English.

This is the part I hate. The groveling and sniveling. As if that’ll fucking sway me. It never does. I don’t fucking care.

“I—I didn’t know…”

“Not my problem,” I clip in a bored tone.

“I can pay you.”

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