Page 2 of Primo DeLuca

My hands worked, frantic and fast, weaving into the only open space on the highway to keep from hitting other motorists. The black truck didn’t abandon its aggressive attack. It delivered a harsher bump this time, forcing my Charger to slide over the road like the zipper of a horny teen’s jeans.

When my car lost its fight with the relentless force of momentum, the crushing impact of my front bumper striking a gray SUV snapped my neck with a harsh jerk to the left. The side of my head struck the window and bounced off of it like a pin after a bowling ball strike. A concussion was a strong possibility based on the way pain detonated in my head and shot down my body like lightning before pulsing back up to my skull.

My car came to an abrupt metal-crunching stop, the passenger side slamming into a strip of guardrail. The thick line of silver metal burst through the passenger side window and pushed through the door before it rested in my passenger seat. I would have been a glob of pulverized meat if the impact had occurred on the driver’s side.

The scent of burned rubber and engine exhaust perfumed the air, thick and suffocating. Raw anger coursed through my veins and pushed vengeance-seeking adrenaline through me. The strength of the emotion automatically snapped me into savage mode.

I blinked through blurred vision and my body ached like a motherfucker, but it didn't stop me from moving with purpose and determination, snatching my door handle, and kicking it open.

Using the door for cover, I jumped out of the car and aimed in every direction until I found the assholes who ran me off the road. My vision zoomed in and out of focus.

Was it more than one person? Who were they? What did they want?

“Pré…mo! De…Lu…ca!”

They sounded out every syllable of my name so that there was no mistaking who they addressed. The booming voice I believe came from a loudspeaker met my ears.

“The Malizioso is coming. See you soon!”

The deafening screech of their tires added to the pounding in my head. The black, darkly tinted truck jetted off like an evil streak of death, leaving me aching to put a fucking bullet in someone’s skull.

The Malizioso were at the top of the food chain in the contract killing arena. Their reputation spoke of skills so deadly the group was known to provide their target a warning, making them aware that they were in their crosshairs before they started the official hunt.

The notorious group wanted their targets prepared for a fight so that the hunt would be a much more deadly game. Their hitmen and women planned their kills months in advance and were given budgets to ensure they accomplished their missions.

In my line of work, I was imprisoned before, tortured, stabbed, and shot, but this was my first time landing on an official hit list. At thirty-eight, I had lived about a decade longer than was expected. Being the family hitman for nineteen years and running, I recently added Capo of St. Louis to my resume.

Now that Don Ermanno was gone, we expected other families to flex their muscles and test us but targeting me was making a whole other statement. They wanted this smoke, they damn well better expect the fires of hell to come with it.

I spat out a wad of blood and swiped more from my lip while staring after the taillights of the truck that hit me.

“Sir, are you alright?” a concerned Good Samaritan asked.

Several cars had stopped to help, but I didn’t acknowledge a broader glimpse of my surroundings until the red I was seeing had cleared and my temperature cooled to that of a human

Now that my blood was no longer boiling an unusually cool breeze for July whispered along my skin. It provided an ominous touch that hinted at the trouble on the horizon.

This scene, the people’s stressed faces, their anxious movements, and concerned voices was no longer white noise. The driver of the vehicle I hit was out and standing, and a woman who stopped to help wiped blood from his forehead.

I lifted my phone to my ear.

“I’m going to be late.”

I growled the words and clicked off, not in the mood to explain shit over the phone. The sound of sirens in the distance drew closer. My phone was up to my ear again after I hit one of eight numbers that made up my speed dial list.

“Come to the city. I’m a target. The Malizioso,” was all I said before hanging up.

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