wondering what Neil has done to warrant being offed by the Mob, because surely being a sleaze who cheats on his wife and embezzles a bit isn’t that bad in comparison to some of the evil out there, and you’d be right. Being a cheating scumbag is not death worthy. Though I’ve never been of the same mind, I knew plenty of men who could separate sex from love. I knew plenty of men who will blow their loads all over their mistresses and then go home to worship their wives. Adultery is up there with murder in the Mob; it might be a Commandment, but you can always rationalize it away if you believe the reason justifiable enough.
I did neither.
I didn’t justify my kills or cheat on anyone. I slept like a baby at night because my conscience had been silenced the night Frankie left me. My soul died that same night.
No, I was here in Neil Hansen’s Garden Grove mini-mansion, waiting in the shadows, because Neil’s little embezzlement problem? Yeah, that was due to the fact that Neil liked to gamble.
And he liked to gamble big.
However, because Neil was also the CEO of Hansen and Belmilch Financial-Grandy Belmilch was the CFO-his murder was sure to bring a lot of media and law enforcement attention. It was why Luca didn’t trust this hit to one of his many other shooters.
A month ago, after Ciro had gotten a hold of good, ol’ Neil, it was clear within the following week that, even after Ciro’s handiwork, the man couldn’t make good on his eight-hundred-thousand-dollar debt to the Benetti Family. And Grandy Belmilch wasn’t just a CFO; he was a smart CFO. After doing my homework, I knew there was no way Neil would be able to embezzle the amounts he needed without Grandy catching wind of what he was doing. And once I took that information to Luca, he made the decision to make a topnotch example out of good, ol’ Neil.
The sound of the front door slamming shut told me two things; one, Neil’s mistress didn’t get the comforting she thought she was going to get and, two, I could finally get down to business.
Again, because I did my homework, I knew the exact layout of Neil’s home and his fading footsteps told me he was heading into his study. But, to be fair, I also knew this because Neil was a creature of habit, and he always drank his finest whiskey in his study to wind down after getting his dick suck by his trainer.
Now, usually, I just went in, shot the sonofabitch, and disappeared. But I took offense to good, ol’ Neil ignoring Ciro’s warning. Most people got some quick get-right after being on the receiving end of one of Ciro’s visits, but Neil’s gambling problem outweighed his survival instincts this go-round.
I crept silently into the study. Neil’s back was to me as he poured himself another drink, no doubt hoping it wouldn’t be interrupted by another pregnant mistress. My dick almost got hard as the tumbler slipped from his hand and bounced on the carpet as the tip of my gun met the back of his head.
“Good evening, Neil,” I chuckled. I might not have a soul, but I did find joy in the little things.
“Uh…”
I took a step back and eased off the pressure of the gun, so he could turn around and see his fate. Again, normally, I didn’t play games like this, but I was feeling…irritated having to wait so long to off him. When he turned around and saw me, his eyes widened, and though we’ve never met, he knew who I was.
I smiled.
“I promise-”
I tsk’ed at the poor man. “Now, now, Neil,” I sing-songed, “I’ve heard all about the promises you make. I heard them all from Ciro Mancini as a matter of fact.”
“But-”
I shook the bag out of my back pocket with my free hand, and I had it over his head and a bullet in his brain before he could beg some more. Letting his body fall, I held onto the bag and stuffed it in my back pocket to get rid of later when I got rid of everything else. Now, some might think it was morbid to carry around a bag with brain splatter in it, but that kind of shit stopped bothering me years ago.
Sneaking out the way I snuck in, I jumped the back yard into the adjoining yard of the vacant house next door. In