Page 22 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
Armed and ready, I press myself against the wall to the right of the door, waiting.
It’s time to teach a lesson in what not to be—overconfident, stupid, weak. I’m the son of a monster, making me one in my own right. That’s why you never fuck with a Beneventi.
The longer I wait, the harder it is to stay conscious, and the angrier I get.
How did this happen? How could I allow myself to be watched? Ambushed?
Finally, the distinct growl of a chain saw interrupts the silence.
Coming in with guns blazing, are they?
Just as well.
The door is unlocked, and Dead Man One, Dead Man Two, and the man with the chain saw—Giovanni—rush in.
“Why’s it so dark in here?” Dead Man One hollers over the noise.
With 1980s horror music setting the scene within my mind, the carnage begins. Door kicked shut, I bludgeon Giovanni first,driving my weapon into his neck. He gurgles, and his hands reach for his throat.
The chain saw sails through the air like a torpedo, and then slices through Dead Man One’s torso like deli meat. He drops his cell phone, and his innards spill out onto the cement floor.
I pick the chain saw up and turn toward the last man still standing.
Shaking, Dead Man Two backs into the wall. Panicked by how easily I gained control, though he should be more concerned about punching me earlier. Though he’ll survive a few more minutes.
Because a dead man can’t talk.
I crash a fist into his face and gain immediate satisfaction when his nose breaks. Chain saw off, I demand answers. “You work for Bible Belt Benny?”
He cups his nose. “Who?”
Stupidity must run in the Manocchio bloodline. “Benny fucking Manocchio.”
“Jesus, that Benny?” he stutters. “No. Never met him.”
Something he said earlier seeps in between anger and intent. Something from their earlier conversation.“Why did he come back?”
“How long have you been following me?”
He holds up his hands. “I’ll tell you everything if you give me your word I’ll walk out of this room alive.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you my word, and I’ll buy a cup of motherfucking coffee as a thank-you.”
I catch his nod.
“Six weeks.”
My entire body stiffens. “You’ve been following me six motherfucking weeks?”
“Not following, exactly. Just waiting outside the apartment for your arrival. After the last three weeks, we didn’t think you’d show your face again.”
Amateurs. Them.Me.
How did I miss this? How did I allow my routine to become so freaking predictable?
“Lucky for you, you left the building before our guys could fire up the explosion. They turned the entire apartment on the third floor into a gas bomb. Used special sheetrock and window corking to block out air so the carbon monoxide could build up and ignite quicker.”
Fuck. This was a planned execution weeks in the making, well before my father butchered Bible Belt Benny. Who would have believed he’d be that cunning? But something else they said earlier flickers through my thoughts.“We’ll send the video as our gift? He’ll enjoy it, and maybe overlook your screwup.”
