His Mafia Captor (HIS MAFIA MEN #1) by Jude Steel EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Jude Steel
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
ENZO
The alley reeks of piss and desperation, the stench as familiar to me as the
weight of the gun in my hand. I keep to the shadows, a predator in an
impeccably tailored suit, as I stalk my prey. He stumbles ahead of me,
oblivious to his imminent demise, too focused on trying to keep his guts
from spilling out through the ragged hole in his stomach.
I put that hole there, a reminder of what happens when you cross Dante
Vitale. What happens when you cross me.
The rat fink reaches the mouth of the alley, his blood-slick fingers grasping
desperately at the brick wall as he tries to keep himself upright. I could let
him go, let him shamble out into the street and leave a macabre breadcrumb
trail for the cops to follow. It would be a slow, agonizing death, befitting the
magnitude of his betrayal.
But my uncle wants a message sent. And when Dante Vitale gives an order,
you don’t disappoint.
I raise my gun, the silencer already screwed securely into place. The rat’s
sobs echo off the alley walls, grating on my nerves. I hate it when they cry.
You’d think a lifetime in this business would’ve taught them to face death
with something resembling dignity. But they’re all the same in the end –
spineless and sniveling, pleading for a mercy they know damn well doesn’t
exist in our world.
My finger tightens on the trigger, the pressure as familiar as a lover’s caress.
One tug, one muted pop, and it’ll all be over. Just another body to dispose
of, another mess to clean up. All in a night’s work for Enzo Vitale, mafia
underboss and cold-blooded killer.
“Pl-please,” the rat whimpers, the word wet and thick. “I got… a family…”
I feel my lip curl in disgust. As if he gave a single fuck about his wife and
snot-nosed brats when he was singing like a canary to the Feds. No, he only
cares about saving his own pathetic hide. They always do.
“You should’ve thought about them before you turned rat,” I tell him coldly.
The words are pointless, I know. He’s not really listening, too caught up in
his own impending doom. But I say them anyway, a final “fuck you” to
punctuate his miserable existence. My finger starts to depress the trigger,
ready to paint the alley wall with the contents of his skull.
And that’s when I hear it. A sharp, startled intake of breath, out of place in
the foul shadows of the alley. My gaze darts to the source of the sound, my
gun never wavering from its target. There, half-concealed behind a stack of
rotting wooden pallets, is a man. Not one of mine, that’s for damn sure. He’s
too clean, too soft-looking to be mafia. Dressed in a white t-shirt and wellworn jeans, with a head of curly brown hair that practically screams
“civilian”.
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