Page 38 of Assassin's Obsession

The humor disappears like a puff of smoke in a conjurer's trick. We once had a dancer who did magic tricks on stage during her sets. She was popular, because instead of pulling stuff out of a top hat, she pulled it from between her balloon-like breasts.

What is wrong with me? Why am I thinking about Lola when I'm about to lose my life and leave my mom and sister to fend for themselves?

In the short time my brain is off on its tangent, the air around us has gone so icy, I expect my breath to puff in little clouds when I exhale.

"You think the godfather's soldiers need to do more forla famiglia?" Derian's voice sounds like it was forged in the depths of hell.

Appropriate for a guy who apparently works for the Angel of Death.

Suddenly there is a gun in Mario's hand, silencer already attached.

The weapon isn't pointed at me though. It's pointed at Gino. Surprised offense washes over his face and I want to gag.

He really thinks he's all that, but seriously?

Angel of Death. Plus godfather. He did the math and came up with his ABCs.

"Ain't nobody in the GenoveseFamiliawith more clout than Death except our new fucking don. Miceli De Luca is the only made man in the Family we would even consider listening to about countermanding an order from our boss. And the don would never revoke an order from Death.

"Just because you work for the godfather's pet serial killer doesn't give you any jurisdiction over us," Gino huffs. "Put that fucking gun away before I call my boss."

"Aww, he's going to tell his dad on us," Mario singsongs to Derian. "I'd pit our papà against his any day."

"He's right." Derian pauses long enough for Freddy to relax and a smug smirk to form on Gino's face. "Wearethe best at disappearing bodies. We sure as hell can dispose of these two jamooks."

Freddy takes a wary step away from his cohort, drawing a clear distinction between the two of them.

Not super loyal, but also not stupid.

I'm not part of the mafia, but one thing I've discovered about Angelo is that no one wants to mess with Death.

And lucky me. Even if he doesn't want me the way I want him, Angelo Caruso has me under his protection.

"You're not going to waste your brothers over a piece of stripper tail," Gino announces like he's really not getting the memo.

"That's exotic dancer to you, asshole." Yep, that's my mouth writing checks I don't have the gun, or ability to use it, to cash.

But hey, the guy holding me in what feels like a much less nefarious grip does.

"Shut up, bitch this has nothing to do with you," Gino says snidely. "The men are talking."

Unexpectedly fury boils up inside me at his supercilious attitude. I've dealt with more demeaning jerks than him, but after the last fifteen minutes, his words hit me on the raw.

"Just shoot him already. He's a misogynistic, murdering waste of good Italian tailoring." I may live paycheck to paycheck, but I'm a New York girl, through and through.

I know my designers and that jerk is wearing Armani, or a very good knockoff of it.

Did I really just tell a man to shoot someone else? There must be something in me from my sperm donor's gene pool, because I'm not apologizing.

And I'm for sure not taking it back.

Not that Mario gives me the chance. There's the sound of a loud sneeze and then a dark hole appears in the center of Gino's forehead.

He crumbles to the ground as my heart thuds in shock.

"Why did you do that?" I practically shriek.

"You said to shoot him," Mario says, likethatmatters.

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