Page 145 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
That’s when the cold sets in.
Not the chill of the stone beneath our feet, or the stale air pressed between the walls, but the knowledge that even the threat to children doesn’t stir him.
Whoever he follows has replaced his conscience with doctrine.
"You’re not a Rossi," I murmur. "Not a Salvatore. And you’re not freelance. You’re trained. Cultivated. So who taught you to die like this?"
Still nothing.
Then, finally, a whisper.
Barely audible.
"I believe in the blood that was forgotten."
It’s not an admission.
Not even defiance.
It’s faith.
A creed whispered not to me, but to whatever ghost he serves.
I give him one last moment.
When nothing else comes, I draw my pistol.
One shot.
Center mass.
No drama.
He exhales, slumps forward, dead before the blood hits the floor.
I linger for a beat, the smell of gunpowder thick in my nose.
I am watching the pool spread, and thinking he died far too easily.
There’s much more to be done, so I finally draw a cloth from my coat pocket and wipe the slide of my gun clean of any trace of blood mist or powder burn.
After ejecting the magazine, I check the chamber.
No jam.
No smear.
Only then do I reload, lock it back, and return it to the shoulder holster beneath my jacket, and break into a slow walk.
The halls are quiet as I move toward the south wing, but with a tension that hangs brittle at the edges, stretched too tight across the walls, as if even the shadows are waiting for the next blow.
I pass two staff members and say nothing. They lower their heads.
One of them fumbles a clipboard.
The suite door is cracked when I reach it.
Gianna is standing at the window, arms wrapped loosely across her chest, the lines of her body faint in the early blue-gray of evening.
