“I’ll be back late,” I tell her.

If I come back at all.

My finger rests over the trigger of my Glock as I close the door and descend the steps of my apartment. Purpose floods my veins as I walk toward my car. I unlock the door and slide in, starting the car. The car roars as I pull out of the parallel parking and drive toward Montmartre, away from my home in Plateau so that I can meet that stupid fuck, who still texts Elena.

It wasn’t all right when she was my girl, but now that she’s my wife—my actually pregnant wife—I need to end that douchebag once and for all.

He needs to die.

My mind was made up the moment I saw that fucking look of entitlement on his face at the sit-down. He insulted me, and my blood boils just thinking about how he made me look like an asshole in front of my superiors.

I’ll kill the piece of shit, and I won’t be quick about it, either. I’ll take my goddamn time and listen to him whine and bitch and beg me for his life.

And that means going against Johnny’s orders.

Hell, it’s not as if we haven’t killed wise guys before without permission. Guys get killed all the time. You get a bunch of hotheads in a room with guns, and some of them have arguments, and before you know it, one of them is dead. Once, a made guy from the Algiere family called Pierre an asshole while we were playing cards, and the crazy fuck shot him in the chest. Just like that—BAM—and he was gone. He was a made guy. We had to bury him where no one could ever find him. No body? No proof he was murdered.

It’s that simple.

I stop the car and park, looking for a male form on the street as I get out of the car and duck behind the pork store.

I recovered the SIM card from Elena’s phone after I smashed it, and I use it to keep tabs on that motherfucker. The violent shit he sends her makes me sick to my stomach to read, but mostly it’s just like dumping a gallon of gasoline on fire. I’ve been dying to beat the piss out of this asshole for weeks. My fists are aching for action.

My fingers fly over my cell phone as I slide in the SIM card, ignoring the fresh wave of violent text messages. Shit, I should be allowed to whack him based on what he says here:

Your fucking boyfriend is dead, you dumb bitch

I will be in my son’s life. You can’t stop me.

I grin to myself. My son’s life. Dumb fuck.

A cold feeling pricks over my bare skin and my head snaps up. A nauseated, vulnerable feeling slowly grips my insides, and I don’t even bother hiding my gun. I shove the cell phone down my pocket and hold the gun with both hands, glancing down deserted white streets.

The gun slips in my cold, clammy fingers and I tighten the grip as I search behind the line of cars on the street. I don’t know why the fuck I feel like this.

Like I’m about to be jumped.

Maybe there was a flash of something—chrome. There it is. Just out of sight, peeking from the end of the block. The throttle of several motorcycle engines guns through my chest and I dive behind my car without thinking as explosions crash around me. The bikes scream down the street, and I know I’m going to die. Outnumbered.

I’m going to fucking die just like my dad.

No.

I hurl myself over the hood of my car and aim at fleeing chrome. Pop. Pop. Something slams into my right shoulder, numbing my arm as the bike goes down in a shower of sparks, rolling over the man.

I’m hit.

The sounds of screeching tires barely register in my head as I wheel toward the next one, determined to take as many down with me as I can. If I die, they all fucking die. A bearded old fuck with a 20-gauge shotgun in his hands aims at me, and I fire at his face before he can touch the trigger. The back of his head explodes with pink mist, showering the pristine white snow. It’s almost beautiful.

Another punch, this time to my leg, and I crumple to the ground. This time I don’t get angry. I get really fucked scared. My mind fills with images of Elena—Elena’s belly growing bigger, Elena with the baby, rocking it to sleep as her long, beautiful hair hangs over the crib. And then a single cry screams inside my head: My wife—my baby!

Is this what Dad thought before he went?

The blows rain on my head. They flatten me down until I can’t think—I can’t think of a single word except this phrase running in my head, and panic that I’ve never known floods my lungs, or maybe it’s blood. I can’t breathe.

I can’t—