Blown apart because of me.
No, because of Antonio Salvatore.
“I won’t pretend like his condition isn’t serious,” Fabio warns, raising his voice until I look at him. “But he’s alive. That’s all that matters, and Donatello? He needs you to stay the same. Okay? Come with me and get in the car.”
He tugs on my arm until I follow him. Nearby, a black car idles in the driveway, too expensive to be one of mine.
“Get in,” Fabio says, opening the door to the back seat. “My driver Oliver here will take us someplace safe.”
Oliver is a balding man who looks every bit the dutiful, professional type Fabio would hire. He barely even blinks when I raise the gun in my grasp and aim it squarely at his head.
From the corner of my eye, I see Fabio take a step back. “Donatello…”
“Out,” I tell the driver.
With a glance at Fabio, the man complies.
“Don’t do this, Donatello,” Fabio begs, his hands raised. Even he knows better than to approach me. “Just let me handle this!”
I ignore him, claiming the driver’s seat for myself. Before he can try to climb in, I put the engine in drive and step on the gas.
23
Don
I don’t see the road. I have no idea which force is even in control of the fucking steering wheel. I’m not. My body may inhabit this vehicle, but my brain is somewhere else.
All I can visualize is Antonio Salvatore. Mocking me. Taunting me.
Over and over again.
My jaw aches from how tightly I’m gritting my teeth—but I bite down harder. The pain is the only thing I have to cling to. That and the rage.
Like an old friend, the icy, cold mindset of my past self takes over, and I let it.
I let the hatred narrow my focus, and breathing becomes easier. Thinking is suddenly more direct. My thoughts have meaning again, and the plan they spell out is so fucking simple.
If Salvatore wants to play politics by pitting me against Mischa, I will level the playing field. He won’t get to declare checkmate with my foot up his ass.
The first step? Find him.
The potential options are too many to consider. Logic is a luxury I don’t care to indulge in. Raking through my memories, I settle on one at random—he had a house, years ago, when I dared to call him “friend.” I remember it clearly, some pussy fucking mansion in the hills where he could pretend to be a big man. I’m headed there now, watching the landmarks and street signs pass in a blur. It’s like I’m possessing another man’s body. A reckless asshole who speeds without a damn given for anyone else on the road.
A monster.
Eventually, that house appears up ahead, perched on an overlook that gives the bastard a clear view of anyone coming. I should slow. Park somewhere secluded and case the property for any weakness.
I only have one gun and hardly a full clip left. No extra ammo. No backup.
In a sense? No sane course of action.
I know from experience that Salvatore keeps at least a handful of famiglia goons around him at all times. He’s always been a cowardly son of a bitch. Approaching him on my own is pure suicide. So, I keep driving, pressing on the gas as hard as I can.
Up ahead, a set of metal gates loom, barring the entrance.
But I don’t slow.
Instead, I brace for the impact and catch myself laughing out loud as the front of the car careens into the barricade. At the back of my mind, I know that reinforced steel meeting the body of this car should be the equivalent of a tin can being crushed against concrete—but good old Fab. He invests only in the best.
My head rears back with the force of the collision, but the airbags don’t even deploy. One side of the barrier gives way in a flurry of sparks and squealing metal, bent completely off its axis. The headlights illuminate the twisted chaos, but I wrench open the door and climb out, barely feeling anything.
Movement comes from my left. A guard? A Salvatore cunt? The gun is in my hand, and I aim and fire without a second thought. No restraint.
At the back of my mind, the new Donatello cringes, warning of the potential consequences.
So I aim and fire again until any other noise falls silent—in my head or otherwise.
Circling the car, I observe the gnarled wreckage of the gate. It’s almost overly easy to wrench the twisted portion from its frame and shove it aside. Apart from a busted headlight, the car looks none too worse for wear. It’s still running. My brain goes a mile a minute as I climb back inside behind the wheel. I continue forward up the winding driveway lined in fucking statues that cast shadows in the dark at full speed. They flicker like a chorus of devils urging me on.
Mama used to claim the road to hell is paved with good intentions. So I must be headed somewhere far worse.
There’s nothing good in my soul now.
Just pain and bitter fucking amusement.
While I’ve scrounged for every penny, Salvatore’s done well for himself. If male compensation for a tiny dick was personified by the number of acres, fancy hedges, and white marble a man owns, then Salvatore has a lot to make up for. It feels like it takes ten full minutes before I reach the house itself. A sprawling mansion, the place is ablaze with light that reflects off the parade of luxury cars parked on display in a circular driveway. A fountain bubbles in a small courtyard, and already two more guards come running.
I park in a bed of flowers and step out before they can fire. It’s been years since I’ve shot at anything other than a stationary target at the range. For a second, I hesitate, recalling
