Page 14 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Rage is not loud for me.
It is cold and quiet with a kind of clarity that few are gifted with and fewer survive.
The roads stretch empty ahead, the streetlights cutting shadows into clean blades.
The further I get from the city center, the more the world narrows to instinct.
The compound I took note of in Mirella’s file is tucked in the hills where cell towers falter and there are no nosy neighbors for miles at a stretch.
The main gate is rusted, half-shut, with a single guard posted who looks like he’s never seen anything worse than a drunk smuggler.
His hand is already on his gun when I step out of the car, but he doesn’t have time to draw it.
Two shots.
One in the leg, one in the throat.
Quick and neat.
The door groans as I shove it open, the compound yawning before me like a dead thing dragged from the sea.
Corrugated metal walls, stacked crates, the scent of piss and mildew thick in the air.
There’s a dim bulb swinging above the doorway to what looks like the storage shed.
I follow the sound of voices.
Inside, there are four men with gold chains and stained shirts, laughing over a box of cheap liquor.
One has a tablet open, flicking through what looks like a catalog.
I don't give them time to process the sound of the door.
I move like water, like poison poured from a bottle.
Two go down before they even reach for their guns.
The third gets a shot off that punches into the wall beside me, but he’s too slow to reload.
I catch him by the neck and drive his head into the concrete, once, twice, until the only sound left is the rasp of breath against broken teeth.
The last one runs.
I follow, boots echoing in the hallway, the stink of fear blooming in his wake.
He tries to lock himself in the far room, but the door’s old, the bolt too rusted.
I kick it open and drag him out by the collar of his shirt.
"Please," he stammers, face wet with sweat, with piss, with whatever dignity he has left. "I didn’t know. I was just doing what I was told."
"They always say that," I murmur, almost gently.
He cries out before I even fire.
I don’t go for the kill. I put a bullet through his kneecap, clean, so that he can’t run.
He’ll be needed to answer the questions that’ll come later.
