Page 121 of Mafia Target

Damn it, he was right. I hated that. “Maybe killing you is worth it to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, I can help you find Buscetta.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Stubborn principe.” He shook his head and reached down to lift his pack. “Good luck, then. You’re headed the wrong way.” He shrugged the pack onto his back and started to walk away.

Fury lit my blood like a fuse and suddenly I was rushing toward him, pushing him against the tree with one hand. My right hand kept the gun in his face. “Why are you here? Why are you following me again?”

“I only started following you three hours ago. I’ve been here for a week.”

“Why?”

His gray eyes searched my gaze. “To find Buscetta. To kill him before he killed you.”

I released him like he was on fire. I took a step back. “I don’t need your help,” I repeated, slipping the gun into my waistband at the small of my back. “I don’t want you involved in my life.”

“That is too bad. Because I’m not leaving Sicily until Buscetta is dead.”

“This is not your concern, Alessandro.”

His expression turned solemn, intent. Like he was about to swear his fealty to me. “You are my concern, Giulio. Always and forever, no matter how much you hate me.”

My heart twisted at the words—and the reaction enraged me. How dare he say such things to me when he was the one who ruined what was between us? I pushed aside any kindness or tenderness I had toward this man. I wanted to hurt him, to make him bleed. “It won’t change anything. I don’t need you and I don’t love you. Just like your parents.”

His nostrils flared on a quick ragged inhale, pain etched in the harsh lines of his face. The words didn’t make me feel better. In fact, I felt worse as he blinked several times, like he was in shock. Then his chest rose and fell before he spun and walked away.

Disappointment filled me. It wasn’t enough.

I craved a reaction. I deserved it. My muscles were clenched, demanding a knock-down, drag-out fight. “Is that it?” I called to his back. “Nothing to say, Ricci?”

He didn’t turn around. His long legs carried him along the ridge, leading him in the opposite direction. I couldn’t stand his silence. This was too easy for him.

“I want you out of Sicily,” I said, trailing him. “I don’t want to see you anywhere near me or my family.”

Nothing. Not a twitch or a flinch. He kept going.

I knew it was immature, but I was too angry to be ignored. He should be groveling at my feet, begging eternal forgiveness. Crying and pleading for me not to kill him. He nearly murdered my father in broad daylight and hadn’t bothered to fucking tell me about it.

Before I was aware of what I was doing, I tackled him to the ground. He landed with a grunt, barely able to brace his fall. I punched him in the kidney, pleased when he wheezed in response. “Pezzo di merda! I should break your other arm!”

Pushing up, he bucked me off his back. I fell into the dirt as he rolled over. We’d done this once before in Scotland, and I knew Alessio would try to pin me down with his bulkier frame. I wouldn’t give him the chance. And with only one good arm, he was at a distinct disadvantage.

I lunged and got on top of him. When I hit him in the ribs, he hissed, his lids screwing shut as if he were in extreme pain. “Cazzo!” he groaned. “Principe, per favore. My ribs are still broken.”

Broken ribs?

I slid to sit atop his thighs and shoved up his shirt. Fading yellowish-brown spots coated his torso, leaving barely any skin unbruised. This horrific tapestry was the result of the dungeon, when my father’s men had beaten the shit out of Alessio.

I got off him and stood. I didn’t want to feel badly for the sniper’s suffering. And yet I did.

Grimacing, he sat up and pulled his shirt down. He was breathing heavily. Even when running, I’d never heard him sound so winded.

The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Are you alright?”

He gave me a stiff nod, then slowly got to his feet. He couldn’t bend because of the ribs, so he kept his back straight and stumbled toward a tree. Looking a little gray, he sagged against the trunk.

I squinted at him. “How do you plan on killing Buscetta if you can’t shoot and barely move?”

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