Page 127 of Unholy Union
Cato
Wolf - Saint Mesa
The sight of Sabrina tied up like bait makes my trigger finger itch. My gun’s already drawn as I emerge from the shadows and reveal myself.
I didn’t come here to negotiate. I came to finish what they started.
“Put your gun down and step away from her. All of you.”
My finger rests on the trigger, the cold weight of the Glock like an extension of my arm. I’m ready to go at even the slightest perceived threat, and I’m confident my reaction time’s faster than any of theirs.
Everybody responds to my command differently.
Sabrina’s face glistens with tears, her body trembling so violently I half expect her to pass out. Her chest heaves like she’s drowning in her own fear. All I want to do is reach for her, but I can’t right now. She’s still got a fucking gun aimed at her, and I didn’t come this far to lose her like this.
Mario Pompa rolls his eyes like the smug son of a bitch he is. You’d think I’d interrupted his shitty dinner party. He shifts his weight like he’s tempted to squeeze the trigger just to spite me, his finger twitching on the metal like it’s a game to him.
My father—bound, gagged, still managing to look pissed off—shoots me a look that gets under my skin. Then again, everything he’s done as of late does. He’s not grateful or relieved. He’s livid because I’m not here for him and he knows it. His eyes burn with fury as he glares at me like I’ve betrayed him. How dare I care about my wife more than him at a moment like this?
And then there’s Don Corsini.
He’s the only one who doesn’t react right away, which in and of itself tells me everything. His eyes lock on mine. He’s surprised to see me so soon. Probably assumed I’d travel by car, get jammed up in traffic, show up just in time to play the devastated husband role he wrote for me.
But I took the subway and got here early enough to listen in on the end of his pathetic monologue.
It was a smart call that gave me some insight into what the fuck was going on.
That this sorry piece of shit really was about to murder his daughter and frame my father so he could take out the Valente family once and for all.
The seconds tick by. No one moves or utters a word.
I shift the muzzle of my gun an inch and fix it directly on Corsini’s chest.
“I’m not kidding,” I growl impatiently. “I will fucking use your body for target practice if you don’t let her go. Right now.”
His gaze narrows, a flicker of calculation at play. He’s strategizing in real time, trying to figure out what angle to play now that his original plan has gone up in smoke.
He remains calm as he lifts his chin to direct Mario. “Go ahead. Lower the gun from Sabrina.”
My grip tightens, heart pounding in my chest.
“And point it at Cato’s dear father instead.”
Mario hesitates for a moment. His eyes flick from Sabrina to Corsini, then to my father still gagged and glowering, and finally to me. His composure cracks for half a second, the urge to resist bubbling under the surface.
He doesn’t want to pivot. He doesn’t like being told to improvise. Clearly, the bastard preferred the original script they rehearsed together, whatever sick little theater this was meant to be.
But in the end, he exhales through his nose, swinging the muzzle of his M9 toward my father.
Corsini grins at the shift like it’s checkmate.
I give him nothing, offering no reaction or change in expression.
I keep the gun locked on his chest, right between the buttons straining on his shirt.
The truth is, I don’t give a fuck if they shoot Papà. I didn’t come here for him. I didn’t come here to throw myself on a grenade and preserve the family legacy that’s done nothing but rot from the inside out.
I came for her. I came for mywife.
