?Whatever.?
He left her in the bedroom, walked into the kitchen.
?Bring me a glass of water,? she called after him.
He ignored her, grabbed a paper towel and wiped his dick, pressed the PLAY MESSAGE button on his machine.
Vincent?s voice: ?Goddammit to hell, where the fuck are you? Okay, look. I gotta go, but listen to me. Somebody whacked DeLuca and Juice Luciano. It?s got something to do with that Arab motherfucker from the container. You got to get low and stay low. This might all be some kind of mistake, but I don?t think so. I got a bad feeling on this one, cousin. I?m going to Billy Romano?s. If you call, they?ll say I?m not there, but I wanted you to know. Later.?
Anthony wasn?t sure if he?d heard right, so he pressed the PLAY MESSAGE button again. Halfway through, he opened a kitchen draw and pulled out a Colt .45. He checked the magazine. Loaded. He?d never used the thing, but what kind of guy would he be if he couldn?t bring the heat when needed.
DeLuca was a pencil-neck bureaucrat on the take. Somebody would have found a reason to whack him sooner or later anyway, just on general principles. But Juice Luciano was a made man. That meant there was some hard-core shit going down. There would be fallout, and Vincent had sounded sort of nervous in his message. Anthony decided he?d better find out the word on the grapevine.
?Melinda, you better get dressed,? he shouted. ?You hear me? Shit. I mean Melissa. Something came up. I need to get moving.?
She didn?t say anything.
Anthony went to the bedroom, stood in the doorway. ?Look, I mean it, okay?? He chuckled. ?I know I fucked you pretty hard, but no time for a nap. Get up. I?ll get you a cab.?
She didn?t budge.
?Dammit.? He went to the bed. She was facedown. He shook her shoulder. Her head flopped loosely. ?What the fuck?? He grabbed her, flipped her over.
?Jesus!?
The white pillowcase was bright with blood. A long slit in her throat. Her eyes rolled back, mouth frozen in a grimace.
He turned, realized on some gut level what was happening, and brought the gun up. He glanced toward the closet first, but she came from the bathroom. The surprise that it was a woman flashed through his brain. Willowy, tall, a gleaming automatic in her hand.
Anthony?s instinct to duck was stronger than his instinct to shoot. He dove behind the bed just as she fired. A silencer on the pistol dulled the report to a breathy pop. The bullet meant for his chest tore through his scrotum, shredding his left testicle as it went through.
Anthony howled, dropped his gun to grab his remaining gonad. He curled into the fetal position, whimpered. Blood seeped between his fingers. He realized he?d flung the Colt out of reach. With one hand still cupped over his ball sack, he pulled himself along the shag carpeting with the other, hot tears in his eyes. The pain made him nauseous.
The woman came around the bed, stood over him.
He shook his head, gulping air, tears trailing down his face and salty on his lips. ?No. Wait.?
She didn?t wait. The bullet punched a bloody hole in his forehead. He jerked a few seconds before going still.
* * *
Nikki Enders watched Anthony Minelli?s rapidly cooling body for ten seconds, determined he was plenty dead, but put one more bullet into his brain to be safe. She holstered her pistol and rubbed her sprained wrist. It was still sore, and the pain had sent her first shot astray. Not that she felt any remorse about shooting a guy in the jewels, but she was a professional, and it bugged her when she was off her game. If she?d been up against another professional instead of this dumb wiseguy wannabe, the injury might have made the difference between winning and losing.
She mentally crossed Anthony Minelli off her death list, then searched the apartment. She discovered that Anthony was a slob, subscribed to
