Page 23 of Mafia Target

“It’s both. You don’t know how to handle those old weapons, especially in this wind.”

“And you do?”

“Sì, certo.”

Cazzata. He might be good with a long-range rifle, but these were old handguns. Who knew the last time they’d been cleaned and oiled? “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Would you like for me to show you?”

“And give you a weapon to shoot me with? Ma sei pazzo?”

“Then perhaps, for the sake of the sheep, we call a temporary truce.”

A truce? Was he serious? “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“You need my help.”

This was unbelievable. My lip curled into a sneer. “Are you really an assassin? Because all you do is talk and follow me—”

The knife whizzed toward me in a blink. The blade sank into the ground a millimeter from my big toe. I hadn’t seen the weapon even leave his hand.

I looked back up at him. He was watching me coolly, his expression unreadable.

It was clear he could have killed me, but he hadn’t. This was becoming a theme between us. There had been ample opportunity for him to take me out, not only here but elsewhere.

Why was he toying with me? Did he get off on the power?

Fuck this.

I was not some weak, inexperienced politician. Or a delusional world leader surrounded by sycophants. I was raised to kill and hurt people. To make others bend to my will. This assassin would not make a fool of me.

Bending, I removed the knife from the cold ground.

I balanced it in my palm, learning the weight of it. With a flick I sent it flying toward him, but aimed a bit higher.

Directly at his crotch.

He moved aside just before impact. With a thump, the tip of the knife embedded in the wooden sheep pen. Right where his dick would’ve been.

“It would be a shame if you cut it off before you had a chance to see it,” he said, smoothly removing the blade from the wood.

“I don’t want anything to do with your dick, Alessio.”

He pushed off from the wood. With slow, measured steps he came toward me. “Too bad. It’s a very nice dick.”

I braced my legs. If he wanted a fight, then I’d happily give him one. The pistol in my hand still had two bullets left. I settled the piece deeper in my palm and cocked the hammer.

The air grew thinner as he drew closer. I could barely hear the sheep over the pounding of my heart. He stopped just out of reach and tipped his chin toward my hand. “That is a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda double-action revolver with an eight-inch barrel. Produced in 1990 in America in Connecticut. The originals aren’t easy to find anymore. It’s heavy, a hunter’s gun.”

When he paused, I asked, “Are you trying to impress me?”

“No, I’m trying to tell you why you are missing. The early versions had an accuracy problem, which could explain it. Also, until you’re used to it, the double action could give you trouble.” He shrugged. “Or you might just be a terrible shot.”

Testa di cazzo.

Raising my arm, I took aim once more. Alessio told me to widen my legs even more, so I did and used both hands to steady the gun. The bullet exploded. So did the target. Then I lined up and shot again. Boom. The second target disappeared.

I expected him to gloat. But when I looked over, I found him wearing an odd expression, one reminiscent of how he’d stared up at me that night in Málaga.

---