Page 141 of Bad Bishop
It was the most profound shit he’d ever said to me, yet I wanted to punch all his teeth out of his mouth. He sat around and waited for Lila to suffer in order to help her. What kind of brother was he?
“Besides.” He flipped his firearm cloth open, revealing his own rifle. “Once I heard you didn’t kill her on that fountain the night I scooped your eye out, I knew she had you in her pocket. That sealed the deal for me. She’s your exception.”
“My exception?”
He nodded. “Your Achilles’ heel. Everyone has one.”
I’d ask him what his was, but I suffered from an acute case of not giving a fuck.
“Speaking of sisters.” I struck the bottom of the magazine to ensure it was locked in, giving it a tug. “Mine wants you to get off her back.”
“And I want James Dean’s face. We all want the unattainable.” He grabbed his M16, making sure that it was cocked, before pulling his balaclava down his face. “What else is new under the sun?”
“Cut the crap, Ferrante. I’ll give up Harlem if you let her go,” I said, knowing damn well I was willing to forfeit a lot more than that for my sister’s happiness. “She wants out of the game. To go away. Start fresh.”
“The underworld is not a McJob. You can’t hand in your two-week notice.” Achilles zipped his protective vest up to his neck. “Tierney knows too much about the Camorra for us to let her walk away.”
“I’ll give assur—”
“This conversation is over. She’s nonnegotiable where I’m concerned. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll make sure she’s happy. Happier than anyone else could make her.”
The conversation was far from over. If push came to shove, I’d slit Achilles’s throat myself. However, now was decidedly not the time to deal with it.
The red dots on the screen shone brighter, nearer. I tapped the side of my Bluetooth to connect Sam back into the line.
“Well, boys. It’s showtime,” Sam announced into our earpieces. “Knock ’em dead, and don’t forget to bring me a souvenir.”
On cue, two bulletproof vans jam-packed with Camorra soldiers revved up their engines, flooring it from behind the dune and onto the road, blocking the path for Alex’s truck.
Our van followed last, parking behind the two trucks, as another layer of barricade the Russians couldn’t plow through.
I slid the door open, watching as four Bratva soldiers poured out of the first van, firing a round of bullets at our vehicles. Camorra snipers on the dune took them down like soda cans.
Pop, pop, pop, pop.
They jerked comically as the bullets hit them, falling to the ground.
Another set of soldiers hopped out of the Bratva’s vans. The last van on the line backed quickly, wheels screeching, but Luca put two bullets in each of its front wheels, making it sag onto the concrete road with a thump.
Springing out of the van with my firearm cocked, I jerked my head toward the third van. Achilles followed me.
Chaos erupted, with swaths of Bratva soldiers pouring out of their vans, shooting indiscriminately. They emptied most of their clips within two, maybe three minutes. I watched as two Camorra soldiers fell from the dune like a mouton in a guillotine. I thought I saw Luca duck away before they got him, but I had no time to check.
The third van stood still and stayed locked. Nobody came in. Nobody went out.
Jackpot.
We both headed toward Alex’s van.
Achilles fired a round with his M16, spraying the Russian soldiers and taking a bullet that landed in his body armor.
“Vafammoc.” He spat on the ground.
“You hurt?”
“Nah, I took a bet with Enzo they wouldn’t even touch me.” He flicked gunpowder off his shoulder nonchalantly.
I put bullets in two Bratva soldiers’ heads on my way to the van when they tried to jump me from behind. The third soldier was too close for a decent aim, so I hit him with the back of my rifle, caving his skull.
