then. Not unless he wanted to ensure a bullet through Carmine’s skull.
“The time for negotiating is over,” Salvatore snarled.
“Then what is it you want?” Agosto asked. “Your brother is gone, and there is nothing any of us can do to bring him back. What do—”
Gesturing with his gun at Carmine, Salvatore said, “I want him to suffer like I’m gonna make that Mick suffer.”
“That is not how we do business,” Agosto snapped. “I will not have my business destroyed by—”
Salvatore shot him.
Everyone else jumped, and Agosto’s bodyguards tried to intervene, but Salvatore’s men already had their weapons out. And anyhow, there was nothing they could do—Agosto’s body slumped against the side of the chair, and for long seconds, the entire room was eerily still and quiet. Carmine’s ears rang from the gunshot, but he could still hear blood running onto the floor. Before long, it dwindled to a steady trickle, and then an unnerving drip-drip-drip while every man in the room stayed stock still and silent.
“Now.” Salvatore’s voice was quieter than before, but it startled Carmine more than the gunfire had. “It looks like you’re all negotiating with me.”
Maurizio cleared his throat and sat straighter, and though he probably tried to sound unbothered, his nerves made it into his voice. “We don’t want a war with you, Salvatore. We don’t want any more bloodshed.”
“Fine.” Salvatore shrugged. “Hand over the Venetian, and we’ll call it square.”
Carmine’s stomach knotted tighter. Behind Salvatore a member of the speakeasy’s staff slipped in and whispered something to one of Salvatore’s security guards, who stiffened.
Maurizio glanced past the priest at Carmine, his expression unreadable. To Salvatore, he said, “And what then, hmm? You kill Carmine, and then—”
“Kill him?” Salvatore laughed. “Oh. I’ll kill him, but I want him to suffer first, just like I want that Irish bastard to suffer, so they both get a taste of what my family has been through. Then I’ll kill—”
“Uh.” The security guard approached and quietly said, “Mr. il Sacchi.”
“What?” Salvatore snapped, whirling on him.
The other man beckoned.
With an indignant huff, Salvatore gestured for him to go on. The man came closer and said something into Salvatore’s ear.
Carmine couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could see the shift in Salvatore’s expression. Startled at first. Then livid. Then, as he cut his eyes toward Carmine, downright murderous.
Finally he glared at the man who’d spoken to him, and his voice came out as a low growl: “What do you mean, he got away?”
Carmine’s heart skipped. Beside him, James tensed. They glanced at each other, and he saw his own hope in the priest’s eyes. Danny got away? Please, God, yes.
But that didn’t mean they were getting away.
Salvatore glared at them. “Where is he? Tell me now.”
“Salvatore,” Maurizio said calmly, “we’ve only just heard he’s gotten away. How would any of us know where he’s gone?”
“Where would he go?” Salvatore demanded.
No one had an answer. How could they? But Salvatore was not a man interested in reason. Not now.
With an impatient huff, he turned to his men. “Forget it. We’ll get that Mick to come to us. I want the Venetian and the priest alive. Everyone else…” He gestured at everyone in the room with his gun.
Carmine had a heartbeat to realize what was happening before Salvatore’s men opened fire. James grabbed him and pulled him down to the floor, shielding him with his body, and the gunfire deafened him. He didn’t even realize it had stopped until he and James were hauled to their feet and shoved back onto the couch.
Eyes wide and ears ringing, Carmine looked around. Maurizio was dead. Sal was dead. All the security Maurizio had brought in with him were dead. Two of Salvatore’s men had gone down too, but the ambush had happened so fast, it was a wonder even that many shots had been returned.
Carmine was ready to be sick, and the copper of blood and the burn of gunpowder weren’t helping. His longtime bodyguard was slumped against the wall beside him, eyes open and lifeless. Maurizio sprawled against the back of the couch, inches from James, his throat and chest covered in blood from at least four wounds.
James was wide-eyed and stunned, but he seemed uninjured. Carmine was unhurt as well, aside from the vague throb where his kneecap had cracked on the hard floor. It was so bizarre to even notice such an inconsequential injury when he was surrounded by a dozen bullet-riddled corpses.
As the smoke cleared, Carmine met Salvatore’s frenzied gaze.