Page 3 of Bad Bishop
“What business do you have with them?” Luca propped his winged boot on Igor’s skull.
A locked jaw and a jaded stare were my official response.
“You’ll have to kill a shit ton of soldiers before you get to Alex Rasputin.” Enzo tapped his lips.
Igor’s son. Bratva’s second-highest rank. The next pakhan.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“That’s a big-ass operation you got there.” Achilles scrubbed his knuckles over his cheekbone. “Even if we let you go on your deranged quest, you don’t have the manpower.”
“I could use a helping hand.” I arched a meaningful eyebrow.
“No way are we getting ourselves into a full-blown Mafia war.” Luca shook his head. “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”
“Fine. Stay out of my way, then.”
Achilles mulled my words over, the menacing glint in his eyes sharpening. “My problem with your proposition is twofold.”
I stared at him impassively, knowing another fucking TED Talk was about to ensue. Goddamn Italians and their love for words.
Achilles didn’t disappoint.
“One, we’re the ones who’ll get the brunt of it when Alex gets fished out of the Hudson River,” he said.
That was an easy fix. I could kill him anywhere on the map. “And the second?”
Achilles pushed off the wall, stalking over to me and crouching down so our faces were an inch apart. He was one gruesome motherfucker, with a face even a blind mother couldn’t love. Rumor had it every inch of his flesh was scarred, burned, or both; every part of his body from the chin below was covered in elaborate ink.
“I still haven’t punished you for killing Filippo,” he rasped.
Not this shit again.
Ten months ago, I offed one of the Ferrante soldiers when I kidnapped a woman he was watching over. Pure collateral damage. Nothing personal.
“I already told you. I thought he was cannon fodder, not the family pet.”
“Would that have changed things?”
Not really. But people—even sociopaths—liked to play the what-if game. To ponder the alternatives for the path their lives had taken.
“I’d have aimed for the heart, so his face wouldn’t look like Irish stew.”
The Camorra loved open-casket funerals. Seemed a bit ambitious considering their occupation if you asked me, but no one fucking did.
“Che palle.”Achilles slapped me with the side of his gun, sending my face flying sideways. My boredom morphed into impatience. I really needed to go check on my businesses.
“You’ve been a thorn in our side for far too long, Callaghan.” Luca produced his own gun from his holster. Cocked it.
Who was he kidding? If he wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be here, listening to their lecture. Death was a luxury they didn’t offer me. Instead, I had to watch their meltdowns on loop.
“Nah, man. I say if the Irish and Russians want to off one another, we should let them,” Enzo suggested gleefully.“Muoia Sansone con tutti i Filistei.”
“Enough with the chitchat,” I growled. “Just do what you have to.”
“Enzo. Knife,” Achilles ordered. Enzo glided toward us, disposing of his knife in Achilles’s open palm. The latter grabbed a fistful of my hair, tilting my face upward. Our eyes met.
“You know.” Achilles pressed the blade to the center of my neck. The tip traveled upward, toward my chin. “The bullet you put in Filippo’s head came out of his eye socket. We never found his eyeball.”
