Page 86 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
There’s a fucking guy in a baseball hat with a gun pressed against Harry’s temple.
In church.
Fucking church.
My hand sweats, my grip sure on my gun as I slide off my shoes and make my way silently to them.
My chest squeezes tighter with every step, and I force myself not to rush. One wrong move and the fucker might shoot her.
I can deal with another death on my soul. Another ten. A fucking thousand.
As long as not one of those deaths is Harry.
Not her.
Never her.
“Where is it, bitch?” the man asks, his Belfast accent thick. He jams the gun harder against her head. “Because if I squeeze this trigger?—”
“You squeeze that fucking trigger,” I say, my weapon touching the back of his head, “you fucking hurt so much as an eyelash on her, and I’ll skin you the fuck alive. I’ll slice you to pieces.”
“Not your payout,” he growls. “Not your fight.”
“Mine completely. Let her go.” I stare at his skull. We have to question him. Chances are he’s a for hire who knows nothing, but maybe he might have something to give up if the right buttons are pressed. The urge to blow his brains out is almost overwhelming.
This is Harry he’s threatening.
Harry.
No one gets to do that but me. Ever.
“Maybe,” I say, “I’ll inject you with something so you can’t move, and I’ll torture you. And first? I’ll make you watch me torture and kill every fucking person you care about, so drop the fucking gun and step the fuck away. Now.”
There’s a moment where time stops. Harry doesn’t make a sound. She’s so fucking still.
And the Irish fuck with a gun to her, the one who signed his own death warrant by touching her, shifts. The gun jerks.
Then the world shatters.
It happens so fast. So slow every moment stretches into agonizing hours.
Harry kicks the man. He jerks up with the gun pointed straight up. Then the gun comes back down. His finger presses the trigger. Harry drops to the floor.
The gun goesoff.
It’s a reflex, shooting him.
Shooting his hand and not his head is cold, hard skill.
I do it once, twice, and then a third time.
He howls, falling to the ground, the hand useless, a mess of bone fragment and blood and flesh.
“What the fuck, Harry?” I yell, kicking the screaminggobshiteand shooting him in the leg.
The door bursts open and Callahan runs in with Seamus. The bleeding guy staggers toward the door, thinking he might actually get away. Cal slams his head into the floor, stomping down on the back of his neck. “We heard the shots. Is she all right?”
“Yes,” Harry says, and I know I’m going to fucking whip her and make her like it.
