Repent for those old sins.
But that new Donatello? He didn’t have his nephew’s blood all over his fucking hands, or those images of Vin in his skull.
Ignoring him is as simple as giving in to the icy darkness creeping across my consciousness. I surrender to it gladly, letting it smother any regret. Any doubt. Inhaling deeply, I feel my grip tighten, trigger finger flex…
And it’s too easy. Like slipping into an old piece of clothing, you thought you’d outgrown. Lo’ and behold, it fits like a glove, ushering in a wave of memories. Paramount among them? How good it felt wearing it.
My brain doesn’t even make the mental connection of aiming and shooting before both men go down. I keep moving, passing through the main courtyard.
It’s a weak man’s idea of luxury, as is the fucking row of marble steps leading to the entrance. I take them two at a time and kick open the front door before entering a spacious hall decorated in black marble and enough gaudy ornaments to stock some cheap-ass roadshow. The man likes animals. The place is a fucking safari of various creatures made of solid gold.
It’s a world apart from Havienna’s modest hallway, that’s for damn sure. Especially on that day just over seven years ago. There were no golden figurines of tigers to gape at when someone entered my house then. My home.
There were only scattered toys and photographs. Safiya’s dolls and Vin’s books. Little Nico’s burping cloths and his tiny blankets.
Not one damn item held them back. Made them rethink their course of action.
Like monsters, the bastards found my wife in the drawing room unprotected. As she shielded her newborn son, they shot her twice in the head at point-blank range and left her there.
And my fighter, my Olivia…she held on. For longer than any doctor was willing to give her credit for, she held on.
Stinging tears blur my vision as I blink, returning to the present. I’m the bastard now, advancing through a house that lacks any of the familial touches mine did—and my target is a lot harder to find. Antonio Salvatore isn’t in the huge-ass living room that overlooks a swimming pool. Neither is he in a dining room with a glass table and a crystal chandelier.
I have to hunt for the motherfucker, letting instinct guide me.
Up a circular staircase where even more windows display the property. I can see headlights in the distance, and I laugh out loud. He must have a panic button, rigged to call for backup.
Good.
Panic is a drug more potent than alcohol. My nostrils flare as I breathe it in and round the corner of a wide hallway. I could aim to sneak up on the bastard, catching him off guard.
Or I can make him piss himself.
“Where the fuck are you hiding?” I call out.
A sudden noise draws my attention a few doors down. A glance through the doorway reveals what seems to be a master suite. Cautiously, I advance, spotting a large bed with silk sheets on one end, positioned near a row of mirrors. Vanity was always one of Antonio’s many flaws. There’s even a portrait of the man hanging above the polished mantel of a marble fireplace in the far corner.
I know even before I see him, that he’s here—the stench of his cologne gives him away.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Antonio Salvatore himself declares from the mouth of a doorway. Naked save for a towel slung around his waist, it seems that I caught him at a bad time.
Nonetheless, he has a gun in his hand, aimed squarely at me. But Salvatore was always a coward when it came to finishing a job. He preferred to have others do his dirty work.
So rather than shoot him, I meet his gaze squarely.
“You attacked Mischa’s family,” I say, surprised by how calm my voice sounds. Cordial, even.
His eyes narrow, and he sputters. “You’ve lost your damn—”
“Mind,” I finish for him in a growl. “And you bet your ass I have.”
My finger twitches. An explosion of sound rips through my eardrums as blood sprays across the glass door behind Salvatore. He falls back, his eyes wide, lips hollowed around a startled o-shape. Whether I’ve shot him in the chest or the arm, I don’t care. I just know he’s not dead.
Yet.
“Admit it.” I move to stand over him, watching him cough and clutch at his side as I kick his gun out of reach. Wide, his eyes find mine, but while a coward, it appears he is still a smug son of a bitch. He spits at me.
Blood mixed with saliva lands against my pant leg, joining the stains already there. I’m wearing navy, and it’s mottled with a million shades of a darker substance.
Fuck…
I sway. The room blurs around me as I paw at my side, spotting a splotch of scarlet there I’d missed. Hell, there’s even more on my shirt.
Blood.
Vincenzo’s blood.
“Ass…asshole,” Salvatore croaks, drawing my attention back to him.
My nostrils flare, catching the scent of blood in the air—and the stench works on my brain better than any shot of whiskey. My vision clears again. All of a sudden, everything is so fucking clear.
Raising the gun, I fire again, aiming for his knee.
He squeals, and it’s music to my ears. A melody so sweet it blocks everything else for the moment, and I’ll do anything to make it last.
Crouching to my knees, I prod Salvatore’s chest with a finger, narrowly missing his wound.
“Confess,” I tell him. “To everything. Vin. Olivia. I should have killed you then.”
“You don’t have the balls to kill me,” he rasps. “I’ll have all of the famiglia on your ass. You’ll be strung up just like that dumb bitch—”
I drag my finger over until it hits fleshy, warm wetness. Then I dig in with the tip of my nail so that beautiful song grows richer. I’m intoxicated by that
