Page 65 of Ruthless King
At the back of my mind, the new Donatello cringes, warning of the potential consequences.
So I aim and fire again until any other noise falls silent—in my head or otherwise.
Circling the car, I observe the gnarled wreckage of the gate. It’s almost overly easy to wrench the twisted portion from its frame and shove it aside. Apart from a busted headlight, the car looks none too worse for wear. It’s still running. My brain goes a mile a minute as I climb back inside behind the wheel. I continue forward up the winding driveway lined in fucking statues that cast shadows in the dark at full speed. They flicker like a chorus of devils urging me on.
Mama used to claim the road to hell is paved with good intentions. So I must be headed somewhere far worse.
There’s nothing good in my soul now.
Just pain and bitter fucking amusement.
While I’ve scrounged for every penny, Salvatore’s done well for himself. If male compensation for a tiny dick was personified by the number of acres, fancy hedges, and white marble a man owns, then Salvatore has a lot to make up for. It feels like it takes ten full minutes before I reach the house itself. A sprawling mansion, the place is ablaze with light that reflects off the parade of luxury cars parked on display in a circular driveway. A fountain bubbles in a small courtyard, and already two more guards come running.
I park in a bed of flowers and step out before they can fire. It’s been years since I’ve shot at anything other than a stationary target at the range. For a second, I hesitate, recalling that promise I made all those years ago. On Olivia’s grave, I swore it—I would change. Become a new man.
Repent for those old sins.
But that new Donatello? He didn’t have his nephew’s blood all over his fucking hands, or those images of Vin in his skull.
Ignoring him is as simple as giving in to the icy darkness creeping across my consciousness. I surrender to it gladly, letting it smother any regret. Any doubt. Inhaling deeply, I feel my grip tighten, trigger finger flex…
And it’s too easy. Like slipping into an old piece of clothing, you thought you’d outgrown. Lo’ and behold, it fits like a glove, ushering in a wave of memories. Paramount among them? How good it felt wearing it.
My brain doesn’t even make the mental connection of aiming and shooting before both men go down. I keep moving, passing through the main courtyard.
It’s a weak man’s idea of luxury, as is the fucking row of marble steps leading to the entrance. I take them two at a time and kick open the front door before entering a spacious hall decorated in black marble and enough gaudy ornaments to stock some cheap-ass roadshow. The man likes animals. The place is a fucking safari of various creatures made of solid gold.
It’s a world apart from Havienna’s modest hallway, that’s for damn sure. Especially on that day just over seven years ago. There were no golden figurines of tigers to gape at when someone entered my house then. My home.
There were only scattered toys and photographs. Safiya’s dolls and Vin’s books. Little Nico’s burping cloths and his tiny blankets.
Not one damn item held them back. Made them rethink their course of action.
Like monsters, the bastards found my wife in the drawing room unprotected. As she shielded her newborn son, they shot her twice in the head at point-blank range and left her there.
And my fighter, my Olivia…she held on. For longer than any doctor was willing to give her credit for, she held on.
Stinging tears blur my vision as I blink, returning to the present. I’m the bastard now, advancing through a house that lacks any of the familial touches mine did—and my target is a lot harder to find. Antonio Salvatore isn’t in the huge-ass living room that overlooks a swimming pool. Neither is he in a dining room with a glass table and a crystal chandelier.
I have to hunt for the motherfucker, letting instinct guide me.
Up a circular staircase where even more windows display the property. I can see headlights in the distance, and I laugh out loud. He must have a panic button, rigged to call for backup.
Good.
Panic is a drug more potent than alcohol. My nostrils flare as I breathe it in and round the corner of a wide hallway. I could aim to sneak up on the bastard, catching him off guard.
Or I can make him piss himself.
“Where the fuck are you hiding?” I call out.
A sudden noise draws my attention a few doors down. A glance through the doorway reveals what seems to be a master suite. Cautiously, I advance, spotting a large bed with silk sheets on one end, positioned near a row of mirrors. Vanity was always one of Antonio’s many flaws. There’s even a portrait of the man hanging above the polished mantel of a marble fireplace in the far corner.
I know even before I see him, that he’s here—the stench of his cologne gives him away.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Antonio Salvatore himself declares from the mouth of a doorway. Naked save for a towel slung around his waist, it seems that I caught him at a bad time.
Nonetheless, he has a gun in his hand, aimed squarely at me. But Salvatore was always a coward when it came to finishing a job. He preferred to have others do his dirty work.
