Page 69 of Ruthless King
At the moment, I don’t fucking care.
“I could say a speech, I suppose,” I tell him, stooping back to his level as I slip the phone into the breast pocket of my shirt. “Draw it out. Make it dramatic. But I’ve realized one thing since we last worked under old Giovanni, old friend. You aren’t worth the fucking effort.”
Carefully, I raise the tie and watch understanding dawn across his face. The gun would be too quick. Quicker than Olivia suffered.
For him? I make it slow, taking my time to loop the length of silk around his neck. Taking both ends in my hands, I twist them together and tug, carefully controlling the pressure, watching every second.
How his eyes bulge.
How he flails.
How his face reddens before turning blue as he sputters for air.
I once told myself that revenge wasn’t worth the damage it inflicted in the long run. A man can only sow so much evil in the world before it comes back to him tenfold. I wasn’t much of a saint before Olivia died. Hell, to tell the truth?
I deserved to lose her.
I deserve to die.
But Vin didn’t.
Even as Salvatore finally goes still, his eyes bug wide; it doesn’t feel good enough. Grisly enough. Brutal enough. Hissing through my teeth, I kick the son of a bitch, hearing bone crack in response.
Apart from a slight throbbing of my big toe, I don’t feel a damn thing.
No relief.
No satisfaction.
Just pain.
Swaying on my feet, I scan the room and find a wooden series of cabinets near the fireplace. My hands shake as I wrench open the doors of one. Sure enough, inside one is a fully stocked minibar. Antonio was almost as bad of a drunk as I am. I grab a bottle at random and down half of it before a sudden sound makes me drop the damn thing.
It shatters in a spray of scarlet liquid as I look over to the closet. The doors are open, and a tiny figure stands there watching me, her eyes so wide, just like Safiya’s.
Safiya…
I traumatized her in much the same way, though I let that girl live even if in hell. But now? This dark, twisted impulse warns me not to make the same mistake twice.
“Kisa?” I ask her gruffly. “Is that your name?”
She doesn’t answer.
“I could let you go,” I tell her, advancing on her position. “But in seven years, you might come back…”
I crouch beside her and look into those eyes…
And even the icy mindset I crave can’t break this last bastion of the new Donatello.
Hissing, I grab her, throwing her over my shoulder.
Unlike Safy, she screams. Pummels me with tiny little fists. Each blow lands harmlessly as I cross to the bar and shove a bottle of clear liquor into my pocket.
Grunting with the effort, I carry her down the stairs and out of the mansion where what I assume arefamigliareinforcements fan out across the lawn, guns drawn.
My, how the mighty have fallen.
In my day? Three times as many men would have been already stationed on the property in fucking uniform. These men wear jeans and shirts as if scrambled here from a night at the bar.
