Page 72 of Tortured Hearts
Pausing at the base of the stairs, he tilts his chin over his shoulder. “The ultimate fuck you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
GIANNI
Istare out the second-floor window, watching the stars bleed across the sky and imagining the smoke hovering above Hackensack as sirens rush to the scene.
They’ll be too late. The real fire has already moved west.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I type two words and hit send.
It’s time.
There’s no need for dramatic speeches or steeled threats. Either Owen lives up to his word or he doesn’t. Regardless, the less detail he knows the better. Once the dust settles, plausible deniability will be worth its weight in gold.
A shadow moves in behind me seconds before Anton’s familiar reflection appears in the window. “He’s on his way.”
I slide my phone back into my pocket with a nod. “Do we have an ETA?”
Another step and he’s at my side. His hands disappear into his pockets as he stares out the window. “Twenty minutes, a half hour at the most.”
I glance at my phone.
11:21 p.m.
I hate this. I’m used to performing a one-man show, not directing a fucking ensemble cast. The fact this whole thing hinges on everyone being in the right place at the right time has me on edge. Even one delayed second could mean the difference between winning and dying.
“And the SUV?”
“Gone.” His tone is somber, not in reflection of the act, but of what it means. Life as Paulie knows it is now over. His blood will spill, the prayer card will burn, and his soul will belong toLa Cosa Nostra.
“That’s why he’s rushing back.” Pulling a worn playing card from the inside pocket of my jacket, I flip it between each finger. “His charbroiled insurance policy made the eleven o’clock news, so his ego needs to hammer out the new dent in his crown.”
I catch Anton’s frown out of the corner of my eye and know my night is about to get a lot more complicated. “Gianni, I hate to keep beating a dead horse…”
“Not enough to give it rest,” I mutter.
His eyes snap to mine. “The more you risk seeing her, the less chance this has of actually working. Anyone could’ve seen you. Hell, the guard?—”
“Got his neck snapped hours ago.” At his cocked eyebrow, I narrow my gaze. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s lucky I didn’t choke him with his own intestines.”
The only thing that held my demons at bay washer. Touching her. Smelling her. Feeling her. Was it risky?Hell yeah. Would it have been more merciful to let my absence feed the narrative already created? Of course. But as I told Becca in one of our first appointments, I’m nobody’s hero. I’m the selfish man who refuses to be the villain in her story.
“Dead guards are liabilities, Gianni, not marks on a scoreboard.”
“Sayyou.”
“It doesn’t make it any easier, you know,” he says, shifting his focus back to the window with a defeated sigh. “False hope is a slow death.”
Ignoring him, I fold my arms and widen my stance.Fuck him for throwing salt in a bleeding wound.Guilt is a weight I can’t carry right now. Especially when I’m so close to pulling the trigger.
Eventually, he exhales a resigned breath, a deep cavern tucked between his eyebrows. “Be damn sure about this, Gianni. Once this pin is pulled, there’s no putting it back in.”
“I’ve been sure about this for twenty-two years.” I side-eye him. “What aboutyou?”
His answer lies in his silence. We both know what’s about to go down and the consequences that’ll follow. Both of us have blood on our hands, but tonight will drive that stain to the bone.
“Everything in place and ready to go?” he asks.
