Page 65 of Surrender

“Fucking found you,” somebody behind me says.

My instincts kick in, and I move just in time to avoid getting a bullet to the head myself. When I right myself, I see Peter Boyce standing across the empty floor, gun pointed at me.

“Guess I failed to murder Cristiano,” I tell him, dashing toward a nearby pillar. “But I have a no returns policy.”

“Fucking—” Peter shoots again, and the bullet ricochets off the pillar.

I pull my phone out and jab a few buttons to start recording. Then I unholster my handgun and undo the safety. I’m pretty sure I’m a better shot than Peter, but I need answers.

“Why’d you order the hit?” I ask, listening for his footsteps. “Cristiano says you were always buddy-buddy.”

“Yeah, Cristiano would,” Peter growls. “Do you know how fucking hard I’ve worked to get where I am in the org? But nothing I did was ever enough. Don Cresci refused to acknowledge me. He just kept giving all the accolades to Cristiano.”

I roll my eyes. “Boo-hoo, you weren’t as good as Cristiano. How would getting rid of him help you, if Cresci thought you were a loser?”

Another shot, and this one embeds itself next to my feet. I grimace and prepare to leave cover.

“Don Cresci was never going to be on my side. But he was supposed to be out of the picture soon anyway. And Silvano would know I’d helped him.”

He shoots again, but he must not hit the gun range as often as I do because it’s another dumb shot that misses. It does tell me where he’s shooting from, though.

I count to three, look over the side, and shoot.

Peter screams, and his gun clatters to the floor. I run forward and tackle him before he can get his bearings.

The bullet hit him in the shoulder. Not quite where I’d hoped, but at least I didn’t kill him immediately.

I pull out the zip ties from the back of my jeans and wrestle to get his arms bound behind his back. He’s fighting me despite the bullet wound, and unfortunately, he’s bigger than I am.

But like I said, bullets are quite the equalizer.

I shoot him in the thigh, and he screams again. While he’s convulsing in pain, I get him tied up—arm behind his back, ankles together. He can’t do anything except flop around like a dying fish now.

“No moving. I want you alive right now—but who knows how long that’ll last.”

“F-fuck you, you fucking f—”

I slap him across the face before he can finish that. “Peter, you’re in a really precarious situation. So just answer my questions and maybe I’ll get you medical attention before you bleed out all over the floor.”

Peter tries to sneer at me, but it falls flat. Even if he’d been perfectly healthy and not at my mercy, I wouldn’t have cared about what he said. “Liar,” he spits.

“Okay, yeah, probably.” I dig my finger into the bullet wound on his shoulder, and his face scrunches up in pain once more. I wait until his whimpering dies down a little before smearing his blood across his face. “Be honest. You’re the one who killed Don Cresci, aren’t you? Did you do it yourself? Or did you hire somebody else to do your dirty work this time, too?”

Peter sweats and shakes his head. “I didn’t—”

I unsheathe my knife—Cristiano’s knife—and cut a hole into the fly of his pants. “Try again. The truth, this time, unless you want to die dickless. Did you kill Cresci?”

“No!” Peter says, staring down at the knife. “No, fuck you, I didn’t kill Cresci!”

I cut a slit into his tighty whities, exposing the flesh of his cock. Not exactly something I want to be staring at, but straight men are always so terrified of any other guy seeing their dicks.

The knife probably doesn’t help.

“Did you send somebody to murder him?” I ask, digging the tip of the knife into the head of his cock, right next to the slit.

Peter goes still, and he stares at me. “Yes! All right? I paid some bitch to off him. Now get your fucking knife away from my cock, you fucking freak.”

Well, there’s that, at least. “Did Silvano put you up to it?” I ask, rotating the knife just enough to nick the skin. “He wanted Daddy Dearest out of the way?”

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