and couldn't stand the fact that she wouldn't divorce Enzio. The only way to be with her was death, and the bastardo had killed his bambina with his wife.
But maybe it was all a lie... Every last word.
I hated him. Enzio. I wanted to rip his throat out with my bare hands, but I couldn't. I had to be numb, pretend I didn't care, be the killer he'd raised me to be.
Because that's all I was to him. Not the man his daughter once loved. Not the fourteen year old boy who promised his twelve year old daughter than no one would ever touch her and that one day he'd marry her, just to make sure of it.
A killer.
Born, raised, and groomed. There was so much blood on my hands I could barely see the lines of my palms. Lord only knew that my knuckles were scarred. My fingers were calloused, and I constantly believe it was a miracle that my nails weren't stained with gunpowder from all the triggers I'd pulled.
I didn't want to think of the number. Mental tally or not. I hated myself for what I was, but there was no other choice.
There was only one way out of the family: death.
I sometimes thought death would be a welcome reprieve from the guilt I carried around from all the lives I'd taken. Thoughtlessly, too... I didn't even spare a thought for the people I was instructed to kill. Not their families, not their friends. Husbands, wives, mothers, brothers... children.
None. Not a single thought.
If I did, I'd never pull the trigger.
The trigger would be pulled on me.
I ran my fingers through my hair and looked out of the window. I was certain we were breaking the speed limit, but you didn't argue with a Romano driver under the orders of Enzio.
“Pack a bag,” he'd said to me an hour ago. “I have a job for you.”
So I packed a bag and got in the car when it came. You didn't argue with Enzio Romano. Unless you wanted to die, of course. I'd be lying if I said I'd never toyed with the idea... Just to escape.
I knew escape would never fucking come. I was too good with a gun, too steady, too coordinated. There was no chance of me ever being an associate or having a simple job. It was my own fault. My own, stupid, natural fucking talent kept me alive.
Because it was easier to pull the trigger on others than on myself.
Because I was a fucking chicken in a wolf's outfit.
The driver turned into the Hamptons. It occurred to me that perhaps I should ask him his name, how his day's going, all that menial shit you're expected to do, but he hadn't showed any signs of wanting conversation, so I hadn't indulged in it.
I was grateful. The last thing I needed when I was being sent on a job was to talk to someone. I wanted to walk in, get my job, then walk right back out again. No frills or fucking fancies.
I hated frills and fucking fancies.
I watched the raindrops as they slid down the window. I focused solely on them, clearing my mind of any thoughts and washing away every emotion I felt. The mundane paths the drops trailed on the glass was welcome.
Mundane was good. Mundane was raw. Numb. Unfeeling. Mundane was necessary.
The car pulled up outside the giant house I recognsied so well. The heart of the Romano family, and Enzio Romano's unsuspecting fortress.
I pushed open the door and got out before the driver could do it. I didn't need his help to get out of a damn car. I left my belongings inside it, because my next stop was the private airstrip where Enzio's jet would be waiting to take me to wherever I needed to be. The car wouldn't move.
The door opened as I walked in. I picked lint off my coat as I passed Enzio's butler—I never did learn his name, and I doubted I ever would. My shoes squeaked against the flawlessly clean wooden floor, and I turned down the hall that lead to Enzio's office. His bodyguard, known only to everyone as Socci, was standing outside, his arms crossed in front of his chest. The large mahogany door he was guarding made him look small, although I knew he was six foot six and at least three hundred pounds of pure muscle.
If I didn't know I could put a bullet between his eyes quicker than he