Page 2 of Handsome Devil
You couldn’t even have a clean kill, Andrin’s voice mocked in my head.You just had to make a mess of it, didn’t you, Boy?
I shook my head, ridding myself of his voice.
It was my first kill. Practice made perfect, and I had at least two more people to help hone my craft.
See, five years ago, Darrah Boyle, along with two other inmates, murdered my father in prison over a bet. A game of cards. A reckless, meaningless moment.
My father was a powerful man. The type not to land himself in prison for anything short of murder.
As it happened, he did kill someone.Accidentally.
Nothing accidental about what Boyle did to him, though.
Paying with his life was the only logical outcome. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, et cetera.
I had always straddled the murky line between a businessman and a criminal.
Tonight, I stepped over that line.
Hell, I fucking sprinted through it, all the way to another continent.
To track down Boyle and his partners in crime, I had to get in bed with New York’s notorious Camorra organization.
The Ferrante family, who ruled the Italian Mafia in New York, was a lot of things.
None of them outstanding members of society.
“I suppose you could say you popped my cherry.” I reached for the inner pocket of my double-breasted coat, producing a black thorn still attached to the twig. I pressed it to Boyle’s cold, purple mouth. It was an unordinary, telling detail. Black thorn.
Blackthorn.
Like my last name.
I wanted his friends to know I was coming for them.
Wanted them to run, hide, beg, and bargain.
A moving target was always more fun to kill than a sitting duck waiting to be shot.
“It’s been a pleasure. Thank you for participating.” I stood to my full height. A thin trail of blood began leaking out of Boyle’s mouth. His eyes were wide and full of horror.
Soon, this place would be swarming with police, journalists, and curious spectators.
Soon, articles would be written, TV anchors would weep, and national panic would ensue.
Soon, but not yet.
The night was an old friend, always ready to conceal me as I tended to my nefarious business.
I slipped out of the baths and into the winter night, sliding into an untraceable Alfa Romeo I’d paid cash for.
Checked my pocket watch, a family heirloom dating back three hundred years.
Twenty minutes ahead of the timeline I set for myself.
I smirked. Punctuality soothed my soul.
I drove back to London, whistling a cheerful tune.
