Page 11 of His Pretty Little Duet

It's all on me.

Right eye.

To hunt down Dustin, to give Max his revenge. To keep them clean. For once. Like I promised. To keep them out of this business. Out.

Left lung

Safe.

Right lung.

Peaceful.

Pressing down on the pedal with my foot, I activate the belt, dragging the target further down the lane. As the canvas recedes, I focus on two holes, like eyes. Like betrayal that turned Bronson's blue gaze to slits that night in the chair. That crazy heart of his was ready to take vengeance for his family—my family—he actually believed I'd betray him. Betray my family. He'd have mauled me like a Rottweiler for my part. I should have never let it get so far. I had no idea Jimmy would take him without consulting me?—

Fucker.

Stepping back, bracing the Glock, I narrow my eyes on the distant mark.

Heart

I drop the spent magazine and snap in a new one in quick succession and then unload the rounds, the sound of each blast contained as they bounce around the padded basement walls. While above my head, the rest of the house remains in early morning silence, in peace. In the peace I'm fighting to give them while the echoes of all that it takes to deliver such a lifestyle thrash within these concrete walls with me. Alone. But a leader, well... a leader is always alone.

I lower my arm, the muscles shaking from the power, the back thrust, the weight...

I exhale hard all thisbullshit.

There is no place beyond this range for my frustrations. For my uncertainties. Guilt. Burdens.

The dawn is barely gathering outside these concrete walls, yet the room is already stifling, peak summer humidity clinging to my bare torso, perspiration misting along my skin. The only clothes I have on are a pair of jeans and my headgear.

I place the Glock down on the ledge and pull the headgear off before activating the chain, bringing the canvas-human forward until it stops just shy of me. I inspect the holes, fingering the blown openings. Straight through. Perfect shots. For a man who is plagued by insomnia, I still never miss a mark.

Retrieving my gun, I tuck it down the front of my blue jeans. My shooting jeans.

Exiting the basement, I take the steps up to the ground floor. Tomorrow night I'll be back to blow more pieces of that canvas apart.

When I enter the kitchen, Aurora is standing at the breakfast bar drinking her latte while Maggie works over the stove to have a banquet prepared for my entire staff to graze on throughout the day.

Aurora and Lorna enjoy the leisure of mealtime while, for the most part, I eat on the go. I step into the kitchen, helping myself to a glass of water, the smell of gun powder and sweat clinging to my chest.

My man, Que, appears from behind me, handing me a towel, being both my first guard and my assistant.

“Thank you, Que." I give him a quick once over. His every line is immaculate, every crease ironed and steamed to almost fabricated perfection, like a tin soldier in a black suit. Yet, only a fool would consider him anything short of lethal. I smile smoothly at him. "You know, you can stop dressing like you're serving the Queen of England."

He merely straightens, cocking a greying brow at me. "The queen is more relaxed than you are, Boss. I feel the attire is suitable," he advises with the gentlemanly grace his London accent provides him.

Aurora clears her throat. I can see her in the corner of my eye, but I pat myself down before acknowledging her. As I throw the towel over my shoulder, I turn to face my awaiting wife. “Good morning.”

She sets her coffee down on the table but tightens her hold on it, her long nails like red bars around the white china mug. "How did you sleep?"

“Well," I lie. Making my way over to her, I take in her tall womanly form wrapped in a dark business blouse and skirt. Take in her long dark hair twisted into a bun on her crown, not a strand out of place. My perfect wife.

"You're a fantastic liar, Clay. I have always thought so," she says, arching a thin dark eyebrow, exasperation in every inch of her flawless face.Madonna Mia, even if she wasn't so transparent, I would still see straight through her. I know her almost as well as I know myself. "This week is ridiculous. I wish you would delegate more. Ever since..." She doesn't continue.

She doesn't have to.

Ever since Jimmy's death.I don't want to delegate. I’m the damn Don of theCosa Nostrain the District at thirty-five, and I didn't work my way up the political ladder to run things the way past bosses have—with a front-man paid to do our biddings. I'm the damn front man, the face, and the boss, the entire top level of this organisation, reaching new heights of control.Control the streets; control the people.It's a message from the old country, and one I'll make a reality.

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