Page 66 of Ruthless King
So rather than shoot him, I meet his gaze squarely.
“You attacked Mischa’s family,” I say, surprised by how calm my voice sounds. Cordial, even.
His eyes narrow, and he sputters. “You’ve lost your damn—”
“Mind,” I finish for him in a growl. “And you bet your ass I have.”
My finger twitches. An explosion of sound rips through my eardrums as blood sprays across the glass door behind Salvatore. He falls back, his eyes wide, lips hollowed around a startled o-shape. Whether I’ve shot him in the chest or the arm, I don’t care. I just know he’s not dead.
Yet.
“Admit it.” I move to stand over him, watching him cough and clutch at his side as I kick his gun out of reach. Wide, his eyes find mine, but while a coward, it appears he is still a smug son of a bitch. He spits at me.
Blood mixed with saliva lands against my pant leg, joining the stains already there. I’m wearing navy, and it’s mottled with a million shades of a darker substance.
Fuck…
I sway. The room blurs around me as I paw at my side, spotting a splotch of scarlet there I’d missed. Hell, there’s even more on my shirt.
Blood.
Vincenzo’s blood.
“Ass…asshole,” Salvatore croaks, drawing my attention back to him.
My nostrils flare, catching the scent of blood in the air—and the stench works on my brain better than any shot of whiskey. My vision clears again. All of a sudden, everything is so fucking clear.
Raising the gun, I fire again, aiming for his knee.
He squeals, and it’s music to my ears. A melody so sweet it blocks everything else for the moment, and I’ll do anything to make it last.
Crouching to my knees, I prod Salvatore’s chest with a finger, narrowly missing his wound.
“Confess,” I tell him. “To everything. Vin. Olivia. I should have killed you then.”
“You don’t have the balls to kill me,” he rasps. “I’ll have all of thefamigliaon your ass. You’ll be strung up just like that dumb bitch—”
I drag my finger over until it hits fleshy, warm wetness. Then I dig in with the tip of my nail so that beautiful song grows richer. I’m intoxicated by that tune. Laughing, I inspect my finger and swipe it across Salvatore’s chin, painting him with the color.
“Red looks good on you, Antonio,” I tell him. “And you don’t want to confess your sins? The fuck if I care. Because I don’t. Not really.” Aiming the gun near his head, I watch his eyes widen, and the color drain from his cheeks.
It’s a look I’ve waited seven fucking years to witness.
And…to be honest?
I don’t feel a damn thing. Revenge is an itch reminiscent of hunger. Thirst. You can only satiate it for so long, but at the end of the day, it’s in your fucking nature to. No reason to celebrate.
No reason to mourn.
Denying yourself is a game of control that only hurts you in the long run.
So I don’t celebrate as I turn my pistol handle-first and whip the bastard across the face. He grunts, blood spraying from his jaw as a crack issues from the bone.
I still feel nothing.
Just a cramp in my hand as a grim curiosity sneaks into my skull.
“I wonder what your brains would look like, huh?” I ask him, gesturing to the pristine white, marble flooring. “Sprayed all over this wall. You’ve got some fancy digs here; I’ll give you that.”
