Page 17 of Mafia and Gold Digger

“Nah. Not interested.”

“My knees are fucking killing me… Oh Jesus, why did you have to shoot me? What can I give you…?”

I shake my head. It doesn’t work, but they always try it. It’s as tedious as it’s predictable. And I miss the element of challenge in it all. While no two hits are ever the same, men are awfully unimaginative when faced with the barrel of a gun.

“Send Saint Peter my regards, figlio di puttana.”

The flash of the muzzle fills the space.

The choke of his scream dies abruptly.

And the thud of his body sounds in the study as he falls back.

Checking my watch, it’s all run perfectly down to the last single second. Like fucking clockwork.

Check and fucking mate.

A quietness descends. Thank fucking God that I don’t have to listen to any more of his fucking pathetic pleas. Maybe I need to send these guys a handbook of advice: One Hundred Original Things To Say If An Assassin Ever Invites Himself Into Your Home.

I relish the silence. My eyes slip shut, and I let out a breath.

Pathetic fucker. I kick his foot away from mine, shaking my head. My lips curl into a cruel smile of satisfaction. It should bother me how well I do this. How easy it comes. A better man would be haunted by the number of times I’ve planned someone’s death down to his last strangled second, the sheer number of men I’ve sent on their way to Saint Peter—although it’d be much more accurate to say that I sent them on their merry way to convene with Hades.

But I’m not a better man. And it doesn’t fucking bother me.

I’m a Veneti. A hitman for the Imperiosi. The damn best hitman at that. Feelings and guilt have no place in my life. Especially not over this fucker. He should’ve been more careful who he tried to screw over.

The flat of my tongue runs along my teeth as I shove my gun into the back of my waistband, tossing Romanelli’s fucking joke of a handgun on top of his body.

With another small exhale, I turn toward the exit, reaching for my phone at the same time as it starts to vibrate.

Shit. It’s Christian.

I mentally scold myself. Things have been so hectic here that I haven’t had time to really catch up with him lately, and I’m sure he’s probably wondering why he hasn’t heard from me. Because as well as being my cousin, he’s now also the Capo of the Imperiosi.

I sandwich my phone between my ear and shoulder as I jog down the stairs. “What’s wrong?” I ask as I get into my car, not bothering with pleasantries. This isn’t a social call. It’s a problem. One I’m going to have to clean up.

“You need to come back.”

The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “Back? To New York?”

“Yes.”

New York… I know where my train of thought is going, so I shake my head. My past is a closet full of pain that I’m not ready to reopen. “An assignment?”

“Can’t tell you over the phone.”

Well, fuck, that’s bad.

My lip curls at the idea of even having to step foot in fucking New York. I clench my jaw and shake my head. There’s a reason I left New York and made my home base in Philadelphia. I wanted as much distance as possible from the guilt. From the memories.

The ghosts that haunt the city make bile burn in the back of my throat. I shove the sensation down. Locking the feeling that claws my chest back into that black box that rests in the recesses of my mind where it belongs.

Calm. Cool. Indifferent.

That’s what I turned myself into. A monster who looks at the world from the outside, who doesn’t let his emotions interfere with his job. This is no fucking different.

“I’m dealing with the Romanelli issue right now.”

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