Page 70 of Bound in Promise
“She’s not like us, moron.”
“You sure about that?” He crosses his arms along his wide chest. “Where did that goose egg on his skull come from?”
I shake my head and shove open the door, finding Angelo staring out an open window. The asshole is likely debating whether his fat ass would bounce if he jumped.
“Go ahead,” I urge, showing him the gun in my hand. “Let’s see what happens.”
Angelo whips his head around and glares at me. He’s met his end, we both know that. There’s no way out but the window and, even then, he may not die. Which would not only be more agonizing for him, it’d make more work for me.
I’d have to go down the stairs to finish the job while listening to him cry like a bitch. Honestly, I’d rather not have to hear him blubbering.
“You’re making a mistake, Moretti,” he snarls. “If I die, everyone will know who killed me.”
I lift my shoulders. “I’ll take that chance.”
“You’re being stupid.” I take a step forward and he takes two back. “Stop.”
“I told you that if you touched my wife, I’d fuck you up, Lombardi.”
He extends his arms between us. “I didn’t touch her.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn’t,” he argues. “It was a story to rile you up.”
I smile, knowing my eyes are cold as ice. “Considered me riled.”
“Take the girl and go,” he orders, finally stopping when his back hits the drywall. “I’ve gotten enough of my money. We’ll call it even.”
Pushing my lips out, I pretend to consider that option, but I love the color red. I love the smell of blood. And it’s been a very long time since I’ve killed someone. “I don’t like the idea of seeing you again.”
“You won’t,” he promises weakly, almost whimpering. “Our business here is done.”
“You see, I don’t believe you,” I confess. “My wife has a very promising life ahead of her and I don’t want you sniffing around looking to bother her.”
“I won’t.”
Bullshit.
And we both know it.
Angelo isn’t going to just accept that my buddy mowed all his men down and I walked away with a prize he’s been desperate to claim. If I let him live, he’ll have to make a show of retaliation.
It’ll never end.
Not until one of us is dead.
And if his men can’t find the body, then they’ll wonder if he just escaped with a select few and went underground while things cooled off.
“I’ll let you choose,” I reply flatly. “Gunshot or drowning.”
His eyes bulge at me, his mouth dropping open. “What?”
“Pick.”
“I’m not?—”
“Now, Lombardi,” I coo. “C’mon. You know I’m not going to let you live. The choice is a courtesy I don’t typically offer. You should feel honored.”
