Page 111 of Steal My Heart
“That I could bestow the position to you, should you prove yourself.”
“How?” I ask, feeling like there’s a catch.
“Kill your piano teacher.”
“What?” I sputter. “Why?”
“Because he’s a plant by the feds.”
“That can’t be right. He’s never asked me anything about the family?—”
“It would be too suspicious for him to start asking questions right away. That’s how they operate; they embed themselves in your life. Slowly gain your trust.”
“What proof of this do you have?”
“I’m the fucking boss of this family.” He stabs himself in the chest with his finger. “What I say is all the proof you need.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to murder someone,” I mutter.
He sighs impatiently. “Try suffocation with a bag; your dainty little fingers will stay clean.”
Ignoring the barb, I consider his offer. Not only would I get Fabien’s boot off my neck, I could be the one to finally grind mine into his.
But can I really do this? I’ve always been around violence, but the thought of me being the one to perform the deed has my stomach roiling.
“You’re going to have to earn your button one way or another.”
“Isn’t this risky if he’s connected to the feds?” I point out.
“High risk, high reward. You want to continue being your brother’s bitch, or do you want to be the boss one day?”
“How do I go about this?” I find myself asking.
“Here’s how you’ll play it. You’re going to kill him, stage the suicide, and then bring me his cellphone. The cellphone is the most crucial step in this operation. Do not leave the scene without it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Successfully pull this off, and we’ll discuss your seat at the head of the table.”
I’ve mentally rehearsed the plan to the point of needing to get this fucking over with. By sheer willpower, my hand is steady as I ring the doorbell, and a moment later, my piano teacher answers the door.
“Angelo, I’m surprised to see you. Your message said that you needed to cancel your lessons this evening.”
“I was able to shift things around; didn’t you get my last message?” I lie.
He retrieves his phone from his pocket, checking it. “It doesn’t appear so.”
“That’s odd,” I muse. “Can I come in?”
“Of course, come in,” he says, closing the door behind me.
Things have shifted to slow motion as I follow him, my heart pounding in my ears. I reach into my pocket and bring the bag out, and move it up and over his head.
He claws at where my hands connect with the bag as I mentally check out by counting the seconds.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He lurches forward, but I go with him, refusing to have to do this twice.
