Page 69 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
It’s because I don’t want her to get attached. She’s mine, yes. For now. Until this is over. Then I’ll let her go. And if I have to kill every fucker who tries to touch her after the fact, so be it. Why should she be happy if I’m miserable?
I rub a hand over my face. I’m a little drunk. My thoughts get out of control when drunk. Soon I’ll be crashing back into the guilt I wear around my neck like a noose. The guilt of how Ifucked up her life, and that I still am, even while I’m doing my best to save her.
Yeah, I’m no hero.
Heroism sounds way too complicated.
Harry stares out the window as we drive through the streets. I told our driver Max, one of our trained men, to take the quieter streets and drive around before we head home. I sigh, noticing that Harry’s seat belt is unclipped. As we take faster and harder turns, I reach over to snap it in place.
“Why?” she asks.
“I think we’re being followed.”
I turn and look out the tinted back window. The car behind us has no front plate. “Take the next right,” I say to Max.
“Torin?”
I put a hand on her leg. “Harry,” I say in a low voice, “get down.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but the fear in her eyes flares bright when I pull my gun. I’d tucked it away before we left. There was no way I was going anywhere tonight unarmed, not with Harry at my side. She crouches down as the driver swerves.
“Stop when I say stop. Hard.”
“Yes—”
The world explodes into fire and bullets and broken glass. The other car zooms past. Bullets crack, shattering windows, pounding metal.
“Stop,” I yell.
Thank fuck he does and he’s still alive. I fling open my door as the others get out of the car up ahead. One’s reloading like aneejit. Right there in the open. I’m taking him first. I fire, squeezing off chest and head shots. I swing my gun around to the next victim, picking them off with swift, cold anger.
Suddenly, I’m back in Ireland, outside thefarm. I’m in the streets, shooting the fucker who raped a girl. I’m doing it for Harry. For her mom. For the dead. Because I fucking can. I snap another magazine in place, stalk up to the car, and shoot them all once more for good measure. Then I pat them down for any identification. No one has any, and I don’t recognize their faces. Well, the faces that are still intact.
Fuck.
Back at the car, I check Max over. There’s blood on his sleeve but the bullet only grazed his arm. “Get back to the brownstone, I’ll tell Callahan what happened.”
I text my brother, then switch off my phone because I need to think.
Harry’s huddled against the seat, shards of glass glittering on the leather around her. I undo her seat belt and pull her out of the car.
“Go,” I tell Max.
“Sir—”
“Now.” They know the car. I can’t risk staying in it with Harry for a second more.
Max puts the car in drive and zooms away from the curb. I sling my jacket over Harry’s shivering body and walk with her. The cops will be here soon. I break into a car on the next block and hot-wire it while she watches, open-mouthed. The car’s old and the driver helpfully left some mail in the car. I’ll make sure she gets repaid with a new car. But for now, I’m taking Harry somewhere that isn’t the West Village because I need to get off the grid and figure out what the hell to do.
She sits in the seat, her breaths tiny rasps. She squeezes her bag in her hands, her hair mussed, the pins falling out of it. Fury licks an angry path in me when I see her look so small and broken.
Someone tried to kill Salvatore. It was dirty and wild, an act designed to bring utter chaos to our world. Maybe it was ahit, maybe it wasn’t, but it was a fucking mess and I really want to know who the fuck was responsible.Shitelike that doesn’t go unnoticed. Or unpunished.
Have I pissed someone else off? Or was this shoot-up intended for Harry? Shit, maybe Salvatore’s actually smart enough to pull off a bluff like that, come out and tell me he was attacked and then take Harry out like we’re all targets.
It doesn’t make sense. I turn onto the West Side Highway and head toward Battery Park.
“Was that for me?” Harry asks. “Because I didn’t kill Bernardo. That was?—”
