Page 7 of These Deadly Vows

I waltz through the bastard’s front door.

“Can I see your invitation…” the elderly man wearing a damn penguin suit pauses, unsure how to address me. I flash the butler my invitation right before I stab him in the throat with my favorite knife, striking a major artery, leaving him to bleed out on the marble foyer.

There are always casualties in war, and I spare no one.

You can either be on my side or get the fuck out of my way. And if you’re in my way, you’re dead. Like the old fuck on the floor. In the dining room, guests are already passing out face first in their desserts. A woman wearing a ridiculous poofy purple dress with blood running out of her nose opens her mouth to scream, but Capone snaps her neck before she utters a syllable.

We take out anyone still standing until I reach Marco.

The bastard is sitting on the upstairs terrace smoking a cigar and indulging in hundred-year-old scotch as I knew he would be. The man is predictable. A creature of habit.

I remember seeing him here on this very terrace before I was a made man. He offered me a puff of his Cuban and laughed when I gagged so hard I nearly puked.

He doesn’t even go for his gun when I step up behind him.

“Pour yourself a drink,” his gruff voice calls out as he waves his cigar toward me.

“That would be a bad idea, considering I have drugged it.”

He coughs and studies my face. No recognition evident as our eyes meet. “Do I know you, son?” He’s much older now. Pale and balding. His skin droops around his eyes, showing how poor his health truly is. I know the bastard thinks he’s dying from colon cancer. The mind is a funny thing. If you tell someone they’re dying, they’ll do one of two things. Give up or fight like hell.

Marco chose the first option, proving what a spineless coward he truly is.

I could tell him the truth. That I paid his doctor to give him some bullshit test results.

However, I want to watch him continue to suffer.

I smile sardonically. “Something like that. My father knew you well. Was one of your closest friends from the old country. Was engaged to your sister before she killed herself.”

His eyes crinkle at the mention of his sister. Few know the story of his family’s shame.

“That was a long time ago.” He stares at me harder. His eyes widening as he likely remembers me younger with less ink and without a scar ruining one side of my face. “So you survived, after all.”

“So you admit it?”

“I did what I had to.”

“Then you’ll understand what I’m about to do.”

He knocks back the last of his drink, ignoring the fact that I told him it’s been drugged.

“And my daughter? Is she––did you?”

He can’t even say the words.

“Alive for now.”

“What do you want?”

“To see this. The look on your face. To hear the fear in your voice as you wonder if I’m going to rape your daughter in front of you before I send you to Hell.”

His face pales as more fireworks go off with a resounding boom.

Thwack. I punch him square in the jaw and kick him in the stomach, sending his chair toppling over. “Get up.”

He struggles to get to his feet.

Fucking pathetic.

---