Page 154 of The Beautiful Dead

A promise.

A vow.

One that would never be broken.

Federico hesitated—just a fraction of a second—then turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor.

We watched as he moved, his steps quickening, his shoulders rising with each inhale, his presence growing smaller.

He knew.

He could feel it—the weight of fate snapping into place.

By the time he reached the stairs, he was running. Like the hounds of hell were at his back.

Domino exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair before turning to me. “You get him,piccolo agnello?”

My fingers curled around the screen of my iPad, the blinking red dot illuminating my palm like the ember of a dying star. “Of course.”

He grinned. Sharp. Wicked.

Pouring us both a glass of scotch, Domino leaned against the desk, his gaze locked on the blinking tracker, the slow march of death creeping toward its inevitable conclusion.

Beyond these walls, unseen, unknown, our men and the Gallos moved like phantoms of the underworld.

An army of death.

Waiting.

Ready.

Prepared to strike.

The red light pulsed on the screen as Federico finally stopped moving.

Domino exhaled through his nose, lifting his glass to his lips, his gaze never leaving the tablet in my hands. A slow, sinister smirk lifted the corners of his mouth.

“Got him.”

CHAPTER 28

DOMINO

Federico hadn’t moved for nearly an hour.

I knew because Ghost was watching him. He was our eyes on the ground surveilling the mansion, like a predator circling its wounded prey that he’d holed up in like a rat desperate to burrow deeper into filth.

Through the comms his voice was clipped and efficient as he fed us numbers. Positions. Mercenaries stationed along the route. Snipers in the windows. Patrols cycling through the city, their movements predictable, sloppy.

The hired hands scattered through the city were stationed along winding roads leading up to the property. They were just bodies, bought and paid for. Empty vessels with no loyalty. No fear of the name Domino.

They would learn.

The air reeked of gasoline and blood.

Marlow Heights was burning. The streets, once crawling with the desperate and damned, now belonged to the dead. Smoke curled into the dark sky, a funeral pyre for Federico’s crumbling empire.

It wasn’t a fight.

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