Page 23 of The Devil's Deal

Enzo takes out a matchbox from his pocket and lights it up, staring at the dancing flame. “It was nice not knowing you.”

Then the match falls on top of Greg’s lap just as we jump back.

A fire roars to life, blending with the howling of Greg’s screams. We all move further away, watching the blaze eat away at him, melting and destroying, the way he’s destroyed so many innocent families at Faro’s request.

How many of those people begged him for mercy he never gave?

Fuck him.

We pick up some more canisters, pouring gasoline all over this place. I retrieve a t-shirt we took off one of the men, light it on fire, then throw it on the ground.

The fire starts slow, growing, getting fiercer as it continues to combine with the gasoline.

I know we have to get out of here before the whole place blows into an inferno.

I look around at our handiwork. Twelve men, all dead, all shot in their legs, then finally their head. We would’ve burned them too, but we saved the best for last. Greg is one of their best hitmen. Those crocodile tears didn’t put a dent in our hatred for him.

“All right, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say, heading toward the exit, taking a quick look at the spot where my father once begged for our lives. For Matteo’s life.

Now, this entire place will burn to the ground, burying that memory with the ashes of Faro’s mistake. One he’ll regret once he realizes our plans for him are only just beginning.

Once outside, we stand side by side, watching the flames rise, painting the walls with its golden-orange heat, connecting with ferocious power no man can destroy. Not in time at least.

Revenge is beautiful.

And it’ll be a lot better once we destroy everything Faro ever cares about.

Chapter Nine

Chiara

One Week Later

I’m being watched.

I can feel it in the marrow of my bones.

That sixth sense, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up, knowing someone is there in the shadows.

Waiting.

For what, I don’t know.

Every time I’m out to work or with a friend, my skin prickles, that deep sense of awareness causing the knot in my stomach to tighten.

I may sound crazy, but knowing the type of life I live, I’m probably not. I have a feeling I know who’s watching me: my father. Or more likely his men. It’s not like I can go and ask him. We still don’t have that kind of relationship.

After Mom died, he didn’t magically become nicer. He got worse. With the years, my disdain for him only grew with his wrath.

The teenage years were awful. He hurled degrading words seeped with so much venom, it tore me apart from the inside out. But he only dug the blade in deeper, wanting every little bit of my agony, like he did with my mother.

He reveled in our pain.

He made me feel worthless.

I thought foolishly that after she was gone, he’d finally love me like I deserved. But as he chucked hurtful word after hurtful word, I knew it was time to bury that dream where I could no longer taste it.

To this day, I’m nothing more than a chess piece he uses whenever it suits him. That revelation doesn’t cause me grief anymore, and I guess that’s sad.

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