Page 70 of The Bonventi Rise
She's shaking her head, tears coming down her face. "Marco, don't."
I jam my jacket between the elevator doors, ensuring they won't close.
"Marco," she pleads, but her voice dies in her throat as I pull out my gun.
This is the first time she sees me not as the charming candidate, but as the a Bonventi. The side of me I've always been. The side I tried to keep from her, but now she’ll see that I'll do anything to protect what's mine.
She looks at the gun and then at me, eyes wide, her face a ball of nerves.
"Just trust me. Stay here."
She nods, understanding. I can see she's resisting both reaching for me and speaking.
I turn and start walking down her hallway, my footsteps silent on the carpet. The rage inside me is ice-cold now, focused. I can feel Alina's eyes on my back, but I don't turn around. I can't. If I look at her again, it might be the last time I ever see her.
I keep walking, my gun leading the way. Whoever this Russian piece of shit is, he made the biggest mistake of his life coming after my woman.
And I'm going to make damn sure his life ends as a consequence. That's if Alina's pan didn't finish the job.
The door to Alina's apartment is ajar, splintered wood around the lock showing where it was kicked in. I push it open slowly with my left hand, my right firmly gripping my gun, finger resting just outside the trigger guard. As I open the door, I see all the bullet holes. Son of a bitch shot through the door before barging in. Shit, she didn't even have a chance to hide.
The living room is a disaster. Shattered glass crunches under my feet as I enter. The beautiful harp I bought for Alina lies in pieces, its strings snapped and frame splintered. Bullet holes pepper the walls, and the smell of gunpowder still hangs in the air.
As I scan the area, I hear a beeping coming from the kitchen, the place she said she'd hit him.
I follow the sound, gripping my gun tighter with each step. I turn the corner, and I see him. The Russian. He's lying on the floor, a pool of blood around him. I point my barrel at him and take a few more steps closer, seeing a sizeable dent in his skull where Alina must have hit him with the pan.
He's still breathing, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps. His eyes flutter as I approach, unfocused and glazed over.
I keep my gun trained on him as I circle around, kicking aside his gun and shards of broken plates. His eyes track my movement, still unfocused.
Blood trickles from his mouth, mixing with the growing pool beneath him. The smell of copper mixes with something burning in the oven.
"Who sent you?" I demand, my voice firm and dangerous.
He coughs, splattering more blood on his chin. His lips move, but no sound comes out.
"I asked you a fucking question," I snarl, kicking him. "Who. Sent. You?"
A wet laugh escapes him. "??? ?? ???."
I don't know much Russian, but I know that.
"Fuck me, huh?" I yell. "No, fuck you," I say, driving my foot into his ribs. His groans are music to my ears.
"Answer me!" I roar.
Rage boils inside me. This piece of shit tried to kill Alina, and now he won't even man up and give me what I want.
He coughs again, then spits blood onto my shoe—a crimson splash against Italian leather. His next words come out with a heavy Russian accent: "I'm going to kill that bitch."
Something snaps inside me. The world goes red, and the rage that floods through me is unlike anything I've ever felt. It's absolutely murderous.
Before I even realize what I'm doing, I've pulled the trigger. The Russian's body jerks as the bullet tears through his chest.
But it's not enough. The fury is consuming me now, and he's not dying fast enough.
I adjust my aim and fire again, this time into his gut. This one's deliberate. I want him to feel it. Want him to understand the consequences of threatening what's mine. He screams—a wet, gurgling sound. I watch as he writhes in agony, blood bubbling from his mouth again.
