Page 81 of Sexted By a Stranger
"…Listen, Oliver, swap out this shipment for Angelo with the junk from the bottom of the warehouse. Lime, talc, whatever you can mix in. I want their turf a fucking graveyard in three days. Then leak it to that idiot Malkovich—tell him Soprano's behind the bad batch. Let them tear each other apart."
"Connor, you sly son of a bitch! I'll make it clean. Angelo's done for, and Malkovich will want Luca's head on a spike…"
The rage on Connor's face drained to ash. He lunged for the device, his grip on Sheila loosening just a fraction. I twisted my wrist, keeping it out of reach.
"Enough." Connor snapped, jerking back to reality.
"You think this old dirt scares me?" he roared, his eyes wild. "You think this shit can touch me now?"
"Old dirt?" I mocked, my voice dripping with disdain. "Connor, you know Angelo holds grudges like a religion. Malkovich hates being played for a fool. And the Direwolf Bratva, who you screwed over with that fake intel last time? They nearly got wiped out." I paused, letting each name sink in, watching his pupils shrink with every word. "If I send this recording—along with the fact that you're holed up in the Celestial, holding my woman hostage—what do you think they'll do to you? Tear your little Irish hideout to the ground? String up your crew on streetlights?"
Connor's gun shook violently, his eyes darting between madness and terror. Then, with a snarl, he jammed the barrel harder into Sheila's temple.
"See this, sweetheart?" he spat at her. "To him, his turf and his family will always come first. He's still negotiating—how pathetic."
He turned to me, his eyes blazing with unhinged fury. "Fuck the territory. Fuck your evidence. I'm done playing. I'm gonna make you watch your little darling die right now."
"Boss." Ragnar's voice broke through, laced with panic. "I've got a thirty percent shot. It's too risky."
Thirty percent? I'd have better odds throwing myself at him.
Then I saw Sheila's eyes.
They locked onto mine, steady and fierce, the same stubborn fire I'd always known. My heart stopped.
"Connor," I said, my tone shifting, taunting. "I've always wondered—why do you hate me so much? Is it 'cause you're so damn ugly? Or 'cause I broke that leg of yours?"
He froze, caught off guard. "What?"
"Look at you," I scoffed, leaning forward slightly. "Big bad Frat boss, hiding behind a woman. You're nothing but a sewer rat with a gun. A lowlife piece of shit."
"Shut up!" he roared, his face twisting into a grotesque mask.
"Shoot her?" I pressed, relentless. "Then what? You gonna scurry back to your shithole hideout?"
"You—." His voice cracked, his arm loosening another inch around Sheila's neck.
"And your pathetic crew," I continued, my voice sharp as a blade. "Look at them, shaking like cowards. Following a loser like you? No wonder the Frat's going down with you today. Bunch of spineless nobodies."
"Shut up! I'll kill you, you fucking Italian bastard!"
Connor lost it, his eyes bloodshot, every ounce of his hatred zeroing in on me. His arm around Sheila's neck slackened, the gun barrel trembling as he leaned forward, no longer pressed against her temple.
In that split second, Sheila—my fierce, unbreakable stellina—moved. Her eyes blazed with a fire that could burn down the world. Her bound hands twitched, slipping free from the ropes, a glint of metal flashing from her sleeve.
With a feral cry, she drove her elbow into Connor's ribs, right below his chest.
"Ow!" Connor gasped, his hold on her collapsing. Sheila dropped low, dodging his desperate grab, and spun. Her right hand plunged a blade into his unprotected left side.
His scream was a guttural, broken howl, his massive body curling in on itself as blood poured from the wound.
"Bitch! I'll kill you!"
Bang. Bang.
Two shots rang out, my bullets tearing through Connor's knees with all the fury I'd held back. At the same moment, two of his goons dropped, Ragnar's sniper rounds finding their marks.
Connor's agonized wail echoed through the club as he collapsed, a writhing, pathetic heap on the cold floor.
