Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte

1

Corrado

The moment the bum ran from me under the light of the moon, I knew my life was never going to be the same.

I was in Vegas with my cousin Bugsy. He ran one of the most well-known casinos along the strip, Paradiso. His grandfather was my grandfather’s little brother, and even though they lived in different states—mine in New York; his in Vegas—they both ran their territories with an iron fist.

No move was made without permission. They knew all, approved or not, and there was hell to pay if you disobeyed or failed to get the okay. Especially when the mark was connected and could start a war. But there was a reason why Giordano Capitani was called Bugsy: he was fucking buggy, and his temper came before his thoughts. Usually when he lost control, though, it was for a good reason.

The sack of shit he was beating to death along this desert road deserved every whack with the bat. Bugsy had caught him selling women, using his casino as an auctioning block. And Bugsy had once considered the fucking bum a friend.

Our grandfathers were old-school, which meant, rule number one: no flesh for sale unless the woman was doing the selling. But before Bugsy sought permission from Old Gio to whack this guy, he lost his mind and chased the fucking bum down. The bum was lucky he made it out of the casino, but he knew Bugsy wouldn’t run after him in his place of business. He trailed him all the way here, until he was finally able to run him off the road.

The bum took off running, kicking up sand as he did. Where he planned on running to? Who the fuck knew. Maybe to the car Bugsy ran off the road, but his steps were not headed that way. In a straight shot, there seemed to be nothing around here for miles. Nothing but cactuses and things that came out at night, because they were too smart to burn in the searing sun all day.

Unlike the fuck who ran from me.

He was not smart.

Apparently, the bum who’d been selling flesh for a pound didn’t come alone. After his associate unloaded on a few cacti,—either a shit shot or he couldn’t control his trigger finger with the way his hand trembled—he took one look at the empty pistol, one look at me, flung the gun at my face and then took off.

No one ran from me and got away. I was too quick, and if they happened to get the jump, I always found them. Then I’d drag them back to the hell they had escaped from.

“Why waltz with a guy for ten rounds if you can knock him out in one?” was a quote I lived by.

I was about to knock this motherfucker out for the count. Maybe I would’ve gone easy on him, but because he was a coward, this night wasn’t ending well for him. My designer shoes were filled with sand from running in this fucking endless sandbox, and it irritated me. I could’ve ended this easily—the gun in my pocket was hot—but there was no honor in shooting a man in his back. He’d face me.

If he got the best of me, we’d either meet again or he’d send me packing in a body bag. I was still standing, which meant no one had gotten me yet.

Having enough of the game, I stretched my arm out, grabbing him by his collar. He was short, but he was built like a bull. He kept trying to use his weight to tear out of my hold, probably wishing he had bought a shirt from the superstore instead of the designer one covering his shoulders. One he could probably afford by selling a few women.

He was breathing heavily. I could smell garlic on his breath. He was opening and closing his mouth, trying to get a few words out, but due to his lack of physical activity and the shirt pressing into his throat, he couldn’t get anything out but wheezes.

“No use in running,” I said, my voice clear and sharp. “You have nowhere to run to.”

He lifted his hands, in surrender, and I released my hold, giving him the opportunity to face me. Man to man.

He did, turning slowly, his hands still raised. When he faced me, he lifted his phone, which he’d been running with. The picture on the screen was of Bugsy and me. Bugsy was in motion, swinging the bat that