Page 1 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
ONE
torin
IRISH FARMHOUSE, NEAR DUBLIN, TWELVE YEARS AGO
Gunfire cracks open the night,and smoke, along with the noxious scent of gasoline, hangs heavy in the air.
Adrenaline beats hard as I focus in on my surroundings. Gauging my next move.
A shout in Serbian pierces the tense silence and an answer calls from somewhere near my left.
“Sve jasno.” All clear.
The guard didn’t see me as I crept into this spot through the shadows of trees and stone fencing.
With the lights casting a rich glow over the dark landscape, I had to make a decision—drive or creep in on foot.
I’m glad I left my car a mile or so back on the off chance someone else found the Federici family before me. Like the Rao mafia, that for reasons I don’t give a shit about, who want them dead.
But these guys aren’t Italian. They’re Serbian, and judgingfrom the heat near the exhaust pipe of the pickup truck close to me, the thugs haven’t been here long.
The Rao mafia hired them to kill the Federici family or hold them captive.
My money’s on the latter. Right now, though, I have my own mission. Take out anyone in the way and get the Federicis the hell out of here.
But first? Time to take care of some trash.
I pull my knife out and duck around the truck and low wall. That’s where I spot the guard who answered seconds ago.
He’s looking in the wrong direction. I leap over the wall, grab him, and smash his face into the stone wall of the outer building. He staggers. I knock out both of his legs. He goes down and I pounce, driving my knee into his back. I grab his thinning hair and tug his head back, pressing my blade against his throat. “How many others are here with you?”
“Fuck you.”
I push harder, breaking the skin with the steel tip, keeping the pressure even as I put more weight on his spine. “Gobshite, listen. I’m going to ask again. How many?”
“Fuck. You.”
I don’t have time to play twenty fucking questions. So I drag the blade across his throat and shove his face in the mud. After wiping off the knife, I put it away, take his gun, and search him for anything that might give me information.
Nothing.
Not even a phone.
“Fucking Serbs,” I mutter.
It doesn’t matter. I need to take the fuckers out and get that family to safety.
These guns for hire are brutal and without morals, a perfect practice group for my already exceptional marksmanshipskills.
Someone in the house screams, the shattering sound scraping along my spine, sharpening my anger, spiking the adrenaline.
If my brother Callahan knew what I did in my off time, if he knew what I’m doing now, he’d fucking kill me.
But we need the money.
And I need the kills.
To shave off some of the anger.
