Page 67 of Cruel Tyrant

But something feels off from the second I start moving. I expected Lombardi to head back downtown, but instead he’s driving south, away from the city. What the hell does he want out in the suburbs? I know Santoro’s got businesses and clubs on the fringes of Chicago, but none of them are important, and I can’t imagine Lombardi would want to visit those backwoods places this late at night. Unless Santoro’s been staying out here.

I glance at the clock. It’s late and I haven’t heard from Stefania in a little while. I hope that she’s curled up under the covers and sleeping soundly, because I don’t want her waiting up, worried out of her mind. I know how she feels about this, and I hate it so much. If I could turn around and give up on this entire game, I’d do it in a heartbeat, but it’s like every nerve in me is bent toward revenge.

Only there’s another piece of me, another voice that’s been whispering in my head for a while now. It’s Stefania’s voice telling me that I can be more than a killer for my family, that I can be more than a man defined by his past. It’s Stefania’s kiss, her laughter, the way she hunches over her plate when she eats, the way she brews coffee, the way she dries her hair, the way she puckers in the mirror before brushing her teeth, the way she grabs my hand in the morning and throws her leg over my hip and says good morning, dummy.

I can see myself with her. Not the way we are now, but normal. The way we could be if I turned this car around and went home. Catching Lombardi is important but killing him won’t make my life better. Getting revenge on Santoro won’t take away the hurt I still feel. I can’t forget the smoke and the fire, the bars of my cage, the stiff skin and fried nerves in my hand. But Stefania can make all that bearable.

Lombardi turns down a residential street. I drive past, going slow. It’s dark, no streetlights, with woods on one side and a few houses on the other, and the sign says it’s a dead end. I double back and find Lombardi’s car is parked at the end of the street, the engine still running, the lights still on, and he’s right fucking there. He’s fifty feet away, and all I need to do is turn and go after him, ram my car into his bumper, get out and hit him until he can’t get away.

Then the knives, then the questions, then the cutting, then the answers. Then the end of the war. And all I have to do is turn.

But Stefania’s waiting for me at home. Her body’s warm and her smile’s big, and she wants me there with her, she wants me the same way I want her. The same way I love her. And if I go down that street now and get myself killed, I’ll lose it all and I’ll break her heart in the process.

I call Emilio. “It’s off,” I grunt into the phone, rolling past.

“What the fuck do you mean, it’s off?”

“He’s parked at the end of a dead-end street. Who knows what the hell’s in there? Feels wrong.”

“You never back down,” he says, sounding genuinely mystified. “Boss, it’s fucking Lombardi. He’s right there.”

I know. I know. I fucking know. How am I supposed to explain this to him? Stefania’s waiting for me at home. I can’t keep doing this. I just can’t.

But I don’t have time to say anything else, because Bruno’s car drives past mine, and I only have a second to turn my head and watch as he turns down the street, his tires kicking up steam.

“What the fuck is he doing?” I scream into the phone.

“Shit, I don’t know?—”

The sound of Bruno ramming Lombardi’s car breaks my stunned inaction. Glass crunches and metal bends, and gunfire erupts like the lightning storm at the end of the world.

I hit the gas and turn the wheel, whipping my car around. Emilio’s right behind me, but it’s too late. There are men in the woods firing at Bruno’s car, ripping bullets through the side of it, tearing it into pieces. I stare in mute horror as Bruno shoves open his door and tries to get out, but he collapses to the ground, his chest riddled with red wounds. Blood leaks everywhere, splattered across his windshield, oozing down into the pavement. I count six armed soldiers.

It was a trap. It was a fucking ambush from the start.

I put my car into park and throw open the door. I’m not thinking anymore. Bruno’s hurt, fucking Bruno, my soldier, my friend, he’s right there, and if I can get to him?—

But someone’s grabbing me. “You can’t,” Emilio says. “He’s gone. Fuck, Davide, he’s gone.”

“You’re wrong,” I say, struggling, but he’s right, and the Santoro soldiers are turning in our direction as they realize we’re still nearby. Bruno’s not moving, he’s not running, and I don’t understand why he’s not trying to get away, but Emilio drags me back to my car and he shoves me into the driver’s seat.

“Go,” he shouts in my face. “God damn it, don’t get killed. Fucking drive.”

I stare at my friend, ashen, horrified, and I slam down on the gas.

Chapter 40

Stefania

The weather’s nice when we bury Bruno DeMarco.

A few dozen people come out for the service. Bruno’s mother and sister are both wrecks; Alessandro comforts them the best he can and promises they’ll always be taken care of. I stay by Davide’s side, holding his hand the whole time, and only let him go when he hugs the two grieving women. If they hate him, they don’t show it.

Davide hasn’t said much since that night, but he also hasn’t gone out hunting since Bruno was killed. I’ve been torn—happy to have him home with me, but paralyzed with sadness at how much he’s hurting.

I’ve done my best to distract him with games, movies, good food, conversation. I’ve even made him laugh a few times. And there’s the sex: desperate, passionate, incredible.

“He was only twenty-seven,” Davide says once the funeral is over and the crowd begins to disperse. The mother and sister linger by the grave, and I stand with Davide next to an old oak tree, the canopy blocking out the sun. His family heads back to the oasis, but he can’t seem to pull himself away.

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