Page 3 of City Of Thieves
Because Idon’tbelong.
I never have.
I shift my stance, my stare hardening.
Death isn’t an equalizer, it’s the great revealer.
Lifting the flask for another swig, my fingers press against the monogrammed “LMM” hand stitched across the front. It was a birthday gift from the guest of honor. I’m more of a straight out of the bottle kind of man, but it seemed appropriate for the occasion.
For him.
“A mio fratello,”I slur again, lifting the flask in a final toast before draining what’s left inside. “This isn’t the end, brother. It’s only the beginning.”
After today, the world will know a new Renzo Marchesi.
A colder one.
A focused one.
A more lethal one.
Tucking the flask in the inside pocket of my suit jacket, I run a hand through my disheveled black hair and straighten my shoulders. No one bats an eye in my direction, and for the first time in days, the corner of my mouth lifts. The vultures haven’t seen me yet. I control the narrative here, not them. I go where I want, when I want, always undetected. I don’t lurk in dark corners; I hide in plain sight.
Sliding my hands in the pockets of my black suit pants, I cross the street, scanning the hive of tabloid hornets, searching for the one who will pull their head out of their ass first.
I find her seconds before she finds me.Blonde. Pretty. Young. Hungry.
My footsteps catch her attention. She cocks her chin over her shoulder, her eyes widening. “Renzo Marchesi…?” My name comes out somewhere between a whisper and a shout, but she realizes her mistake as soon as it passes her lips.
Her hurried steps toward me are followed by a stampede. Cameras flash in my face and microphones jab at me from all angles. Everyone wants a statement, and they’re not above professional cannibalism to get an exclusive.
“Renzo, what do you have to say about the allegations?” one reporter shouts.
“Renzo, is it true you don’t have an alibi for the night of the murder?” another asks.
“Renzo, did you order a hit on your own brother?”
The last one almost breaks my stride, but there are thirty-three years of black walls separating what I feel and what I show.
My face is a blank canvas as I push my way through the crowd. By the time I reach the heavy wooden doors of the church, their shouts become nothing more than white noise inside my head. There’s no space for anything else in there. It’s too crowded with memories and regrets… Accusations and anger.
The last two are the strongest.
Gripping the ornate door handle, I swing it open and cross the threshold, straight into the broad chest of my cousin, Dario.
“About fucking time you showed up,” he grumbles.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Jesus Christ. The asshole’s hair is slicked back with so much gel he’s a walking caricature of every over-the-top mob movie.
“I was busy.”
He leans forward and wrinkles his nose. “So I can smell.”
Punching him in the face could fix that for him.
He quirks his lips, then settles his smug gaze on the multiple open wounds scattered around my face. “What the hell happened to you?”
I say nothing, holding his cocky stare with a more lethal version of my own. He’s welcome to make any assumption he likes about my presently fucked-up state. It’s not like he’s going to get an explanation.
