Page 29 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
I wish I’d killed him then. I wish?—
“I’m going after the gunman,” he says, rolling off me. His blue eyes darken as a sinister shadow eclipses his pent-up lust. “Stay put. We’re moving the wedding up.”
SEVEN
torin
My heart slamsagainst my ribs as I stalk outside, gritting my teeth, trying to keep my anger under control.
Sort out one fucking problem and another pops up. Like weeds. Or goddamn Whac-A-Mole.
On the edge of the pavement, I look around to calculate where the shot came from and determine that the shooter is in the building across the street. The lock on the front door has been jimmied, just enough that now it doesn’t automatically lock behind someone coming or going.
No one’s going to think much of it because the apartment building’s old. Only a professional would know.
I take the stairs two at a time, narrowly missing a collision with a mother and her kid as they head down the steps.
“Watch it,” she yells after me.
My muttered “sorry” is probably lost under the stomp of her feet as she makes her way to the foyer, but I dismiss them.
I step out of the stairwell on the third floor because this would be the floor the bullet came from. Digging my heels into the shitty carpet, I walk down the hallway.
I swear to fucking God, if anyone’s been injured because of this, heads are going to fucking roll.
Apartment 3F.
Inside I can hear the fucker talking to himself. Not the words, but the tone. Smug, overly confident. A kick in the fucking balls kinda tone.
“Jesus, Mary, and…” I want to kick the fucking door in so it splinters and scares the crap out of the occupant.
I don’t.
The last thing I need is him accidentally squeezing off a round and hitting Harry.
Instead, I take the handle and turn it.
The littlegobshitedidn’t even lock it after he picked it open.
Arnold sits in a corner, rolls his eyes toward me, and slumps down on the floor, head resting on his paws. I know how he feels.
I move farther inside the apartment, spying the backpack leaning on the wall next to Arnold.
I hold up a finger to my lips as I pass Arnold and Clawzilla, and miraculously, they stay quiet. I quietly make my way through to the bedroom where Declan sits on a chair he dragged in, next to a high-tech rifle setup.
Who brings pets to a presumed hit?
My eyes narrow on the equipment.
“When the fuck did we get all that?”
Dec jumps high enough to hit the goddamn ceiling, a yelp slipping from his mouth. “Fuck, Tor. What the hell are you doing sneaking up on me like that? Do you see the firepower I have next to me?”
I grab the rifle from him, check it, and start to dismantle it quickly, my actions second nature. The gun might be new, but I know exactly how to use it. And I’ve pulled apart and cleaned my shareof them.
I have two at home that I like to assemble and reassemble—a handgun and rifle. Both are in my safe in the basement. I pull them out for those times I need something soothing to do, something that’s mindless and requires muscle memory and focus. It gets things in order inside my head.
But this? I take a closer look at the weapon.
