Page 108 of Broken

My lips mourn the lack, but I let him go, knowing this is the first step toward our future.

I don’t know if this will go wrong, and I have to think that Corelli won’t be eager to come outside like Savio plans, but I figure he knows what he’s doing.

He’s surprisingly slick, after all.

Yesterday, I saw him manipulate Paolo Lorenzo. I watched him get the pervert drunk, befriend him, and lubricate the situation until the man was at Savio’s mercy.

I have faith in my man.

And I’m not disappointed.

Barely four minutes after entering the restaurant that acts as the dealer’s front, Corelli storms outside, shouting, “What the fuck, Father? You think you can come into my restaurant after I invite you here and?—”

“And what, Marco? You didn’t come to confession speaking the truth,” Savio interjects.

I have no idea what he said to anger the man this much, and to be frank, I don’t really want to know. I’m scared, even though I know this is a justified killing because I’ve only just found him. I shudder at the prospect of him being taken from me.

For the first time, doubt hits me when Corelli grabs something from his pocket, and I know I’m close to expiring. I’m so certain it’s a gun that, for a second, it doesn’t even register that he’s grabbed a cigarette he proceeds to shove between his lips.

The windows to the car are open, and I’m close enough that the faint tang of tobacco slips in through the gap, enough that I almost retch as the scent swarms my senses.

“What kind of game are you playing, Father?” he demands, the cigarette drooping from his bottom lip.

I watch as Savio’s hands flatten on Corelli’s chest, and with a single push, he stumbles back three paces.

It’s clear that the drug dealer sees no threat in him—his mistake. If anything, there’s no fear in the mobster’s face, just outrage.

“You lied in confession,” Savio repeats.

Corelli’s frown appears, and I stare at it, sensing his bewilderment, and settle my hands under my butt to stop myself from leaping into the fray.

“I paid my dues,” he grinds out.

“You gave a false confession. You said you dealt with enemies. You never said it was a?—”

“A what?” Corelli snaps, and as he peers into the restaurant, whatever he sees has him waving a hand.

I imagine that’s him dismissing the guards.

The idiot—thank God!

As Savio grates out a reply, it’s too quiet for me to overhear. Each shove takes them back a step, but Corelli’s temper is close to snapping.

In the rearview mirror, the faintest flicker of a sharp blue light catches my eye. I can’t even tell you why I notice it, why it suddenly appears in my line of sight, but it’s there.

A bright, glittering presence that I can’t ignore.

Distracted, I miss the moment Savio pulls the dagger he said Corelli was renowned for carrying in a holster on his shoulder. Nor do I see him curl his hand around the dealer’s throat as he pushes the killer into the wall.

I just see the lights.

Plural.

There are dozens now.

Too many.

And they’re coming this way.

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