Page 8 of Mila: The Godfather

I must give it to the fucker, he speaks up even if it guarantees him a one-way ticket to hell, but at least he has more balls than most men at this table.

Scotty and every man who came before him from his bloodline have always been shady as fuck since they used to have full control of the Irish clan until my grandfather stole it from under them.

I guess the wound still stings for dear old Scotty.

“He is joking, kid.” Kyan Daly, one of the eldest members of the family, utters from his spot on the far right of the table.

Smiling towards Scotty, I ask. “Is that so? Were you joking, Scotty?”

Taking a cig from behind my ear, I place it in my mouth and light it before taking a long drag and expelling the smoke towards the old fuck. I bite a smile when Scotty’s knuckles turn white, and his eyes flash with hatred. How my father worked alongside this snake for so long is beyond me.

He did teach me that we keep friends close and snakes closer.

Scotty offers me a pained smile and nods. “Won’t happen again, kid.”

“Captain.” I correct him.

His eyes turn murderous, and his brows pull low. There he is. A jealous little prick. “What?”

Taking another drag, I smile. “Not kid.” I exhale the smoke his way before I say. “Captain.”

Silence follows.

You could hear a pin falling on the floor.

One.

Two.

“Cap—”

Weak old cunt.

Growing bored, I cut him off before he can finish. “Knife or bullet?”

“Ain’t that nice, Scotty? Cap is letting you choose.” Kelly jokes while looking giddy as fuck. “And people call you heartless.” He tsks while disturbingly batting his eyelashes at me.

My men might be all levels of fucked up and slightly psychotic, but they’re loyal. I can’t say the same for this Scotty fuck.

“Riagan.” A new voice comes from the door behind me.

Da.

Good.

Here’s here.

Without turning my father’s way, I focus on the matter at hand. “You have three seconds to decide, Scotty, before I decide for you, and trust me, you don’t want that. I’m not feeling merciful today.” I throw the cig into the ashtray in the middle of the table and pick up my gun. “One.” I count.

Scotty stands, throws his chair back, and starts to panic. Like a sewer rat before it drowns. “You fucking—”

“Three.” Taking my knife from behind my back pocket, I throw it at the bastard, and it hits him in the neck. Scotty stumbles while grabbing his neck, where blood is pouring out rapidly, and when his eyes meet mine, I smile and aim my gun at his head.

“You should’ve held your tongue, Scotty,” I tell him right before I pull the trigger.

One shot to the head, and he is dead.

The room remains silent.

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