Page 62 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“You scared? Need me to hold your hand?”
He rolls his eyes, mounts his motorbike, and, flipping me the bird, takes off.
I must be rubbing off on the kid.
After two exhilarating hours of surveillance, I know everything I need to know to accomplish my goal.
I stop the Vespa and slip it between two ornamental bushes before heading up the driveway.
The guards are too busy arguing politics to notice me.
I move fast, pressing a gun to one’s gut while covering the other’s nose with a chloroform-soaked cloth. He drops like a stone. The first follows a heartbeat later.
No need to waste bullets, though I briefly consider making an exception for the one rambling about the pitfalls of democracy.
I bring the butt of my gun down on a third guard’s head and step sideways as his form crumples across the grand foyer.
Italians have an aversion to air-conditioning—something I’ve learned the hard way. But open windows make for easy surveillance.
The drone slipped in without a hitch, so now I know exactly who’s where inside the house, and more importantly, where Vito’s sleeping.
Luck would have it that his wife is in a separate bedroom. He a snorer? Or just an asshole?
I set up my phone and hit record, then remove the portable unfolding handsaw, a sharper and more deadly version of a Swiss Army knife, from my knapsack before climbing over his body and straddling his hips. All it takes is a firm slap to wake his ass up.
Smile for the camera, motherfucker.
He blinks, struggles, and nonsense spews out of him. “You dare fucking breaking into my home. You know who I am?”
“Vito Cardini.”
“You’re a dead man.”
He has no clue who he’s threatening. Neither will anyone viewing the video. Not until I tug off the black ski mask and show the world the truth hidden beneath it.
“Tell me about the pistachios.”
He jerks beneath me, surprised. “What pistachios?”
“The pistachios you stole from Dante Lucchese. The pistachios you have hidden away in a fucking shed in the middle of your olive grove. Did you think you’d get away with stealing from the Eleven?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
I smirk. “I’m your worst goddamn nightmare.”
He bucks beneath me.
I press the saw blade to his throat, slow and deliberate.
“Greed,” I whisper. “That’s what got you here. And you know damn well—stealing from the Eleven is a death sentence.”
My hand doesn’t shake. My pulse stays even. But inside, something electric surges—dark, euphoric. An endorphin-laced high floods my system, sharp as adrenaline, sick as pleasure.
This is my first kill.
And something in me snaps.
Mercy dies.
