Page 133 of His Tesoro

A barrage of gunshots sounded from outside, and all of us froze. My mind whirred as I tried to figure out who was shooting. Dimi’s eyes met mine, and he subtly shook his head. His men weren’t responsible for those gunshots.

My armpits were soaked with sweat, and I breathed through a wave of dizziness. I kept my eyes fixed on the Pakhan, ignoring the neon flash of movement behind him.

“It’s over, Rustik,” Dimi said, raising his voice over the cacophony outside. “You’ve lost.”

“The fuck I have!” he screamed. His arms flailed in agitation, momentarily loosening his hold on Mila.

Everything happened at once in a blur of sound and color. My mother’s hands closed around the heavy candelabra on the altar. She lifted it and struck her husband hard across the back of his head. He let out a pained roar and turned towards my mama, gun raised. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled my pistol out from behind my back, the movement fluid, automatic.

I took aim and pulled the trigger.

The bullet went straight into the side of the Pakhan’s head. Blood bloomed from the wound like a flower, and then he crumpled to the ground.

This man who had caused so much pain—in his own family, in countless lives unknown—was dead.

I glanced around the room, heart pounding in fear that the Bratva men would turn on me, but none moved. A few raised their chins at me in a sign of respect.

The heavy candelabra slipped from my mother’s grasp, hitting the marble floor with a loud clang.

“Spasibo, mama,” I said.

She met my gaze, and there was the briefest flash of something in her eyes—fire, determination—and then it was gone, replaced by the familiar blankness that pervaded my childhood.

And then the back door to the church crashed open.

72

MATTEO

Romeo drove us through the crowded streets of Chicago as we chased down my wife. The last time I was in this city, I thought I’d married a helpless, timid girl.

How fucking wrong I’d been.

“We should enter through the back entrance. It might give us an edge of surprise,” Romeo said as we turned onto the familiar street of the church I was married in. “And maybe you should stay in the car until we?—”

“Don’t think about finishing that sentence,” I growled.

Romeo sighed as he turned into the alleyway by the church, driving until we met the small gravel pad by the dumpsters at the back.

Enzo and Ajello were with us. I wished I could have brought more men, but I’d chosen speed over force.

Only time would tell if I would regret that decision.

Romeo threw the car in park and reached for the door handle. “Don’t die, fratello.”

“Right back at you.”

The four of us exited the car—Enzo and Ajello flanking me while Romeo took the lead. Just as we neared the metal slab of the back door, it burst open. We dove behind the dumpsters for cover as a group of men ran out, speaking Albanian. With Arben right in the middle of the group.

“Arben stays alive. Kill the others,” I hissed before leaning far enough past the dumpsters to take my first shot. An Albanian soldier went down, causing absolute chaos. The other men took wild shots as they ran, and we were able to pick them off in mere seconds, leaving Arben standing in the middle of a pile of bodies. He took aim at the dumpster that concealed us, his hands shaking and skin pale as he emptied his magazine. His shots all went wide and then his gun clicked, signaling that he was out of bullets.

I lunged from behind the dumpster as Arben tried to reload his gun with shaky hands, and shot him in the calf. He went down screaming, and Romeo, Enzo, and Ajello ran forward to disarm him and push him to the ground.

I hated that we needed to keep him alive. I wanted nothing more than to gut Arben, to carve the organs out of his pathetic flesh. But he had information we needed—the locations of the trafficked girls, the list of any other allies. The only sense of satisfaction I got as Enzo and Romeo tied and gagged him was the knowledge that I would be able to torture him for as long as I wanted.

Days. Weeks. Months.

Nothing was too much for this bastard.

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