Page 20 of Mafia Target

Ah. He was finally playing along. “Your father’s as well, no?” Fausto’s preference for a knife was legendary. It had earned him the nickname Il Diavolo.

“I’ve never asked him, but I assume so.”

“It is too messy for me. The blood, I mean.”

“That is the point,” Giulio said. “To make a show. To intimidate. Not to mention cause pain.”

“No, that is killing to impress others. It is why you mafioso get caught. Because you need to measure your dicks, make sure everyone knows how important, how dangerous you are.”

“It is necessary to instill fear, so that others recognize the danger of crossing you. To make people do what you want. It’s the only reason to murder, outside of self-defense.”

I shook my head. “Murder needs no reason. Sometimes it just needs to be done.”

“Is that how you justify carrying out your assassinations? Is that how you sleep at night?”

Irritation swept along my spine like the claws of a cat and I smothered the urge to lash out. I didn’t sleep at night, actually. Three or four hours, max.

Still, I needed no justification for who I was and what I did. I was a ghost. My targets never saw me coming. A single bullet to the forehead and I was in the wind.

“What is your rate, by the way?” Giulio asked from behind me. “What does the best assassin in Europe charge?”

“It depends on who is asking.”

“Let’s say it’s me.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Fuck off,” he snapped. “This is hypothetical, because the only person I want dead is you.”

Fine. I would play along. “Who am I to kill?”

“A world leader. Pick one.”

“I can’t. The identity matters. Some are easier to get to than others.”

“Who would be the most difficult?”

“Chinese. Russian. Not impossible, but difficult.”

The path widened, so I slowed a fraction to allow him to catch up. When we were side-by-side, he asked, “So what would you charge to assassinate the Russian president?”

“Off the top of my head . . . Ten million.”

He whistled. “What about another mafia leader? One of the other dons.”

I knew how much I received for Fausto’s assassination, money I’d returned to Don D’Agostino. “A million, depending on who.”

“What if it was Enzo D’Agostino?”

I looked over at him sharply. Had he read my mind? “Because he is your father’s enemy?”

He grunted in answer. “I’ll never forgive D’Agostino for trying to kill Fausto.”

Except it hadn’t been D’Agostino looking through the sight on the rifle, squeezing the trigger to take the shot. What would Giulio say if he knew I had almost assassinated his father?

I couldn’t think about that now. I had no intention of ever telling him.

“So, tell me,” Giulio said. “How much for D’Agostino?”

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