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I crack each of the knuckles on my left hand, then my right. The guy—he has all the hallmarks of a thuggish cop, probablyone who’s crooked—shakes the girl. She’s still breathing. And now they’re talking.

My gaze shifts between them and the club. Mitchum’s attending a party inside, some glittering midnight deal where donors need to be wooed.

Men like him don’t miss shit like that, and I know for a fact that Vincent de Rosa, who never dirties his hands unless he needs to, will be there. Not at the event, but the restaurant next to it

Tonight’s the night to take Mitchum out.

I never fail in my missions.

Not even to save a fucking girl.

So instead of the girl and the conversation I can’t even hear from my spot across the street, I focus on my mission.

When I returned to New York six months ago, quietly setting up a permanent US base, I took my time. And now that my empire is built, I’m ready to make some moves. Ready to take more power.

My mother’s the last Amalfitano in the family line. American Italian. She should have inherited plenty, but after politics, sexism, and all the shit that comes with organized crime ravaged it, there was nothing left. My uncle made sure of that.

But I don’t need it. I can use my own name. My Murphy clan’s already known and feared in Ireland and across Europe. I want the same in this country, more power and influence.

And this is the place.

I’ve found a way in, a fast-track plan with mutual beneficiaries. It’s a win-win for both parties.

All I need to do is prove myself with this hit and then marry Vincent de Rosa’s daughter.

De Rosa has power. Businesses I want to be involved in. A reputation. And he wants to break into parts of Europe and theUK. Under his own name, he might step on established Italian mafia toes. But if he goes in under mine? Problem solved.

I shift against the concrete wall.

Do I trust him, though?

As much as anyone outside my family, which is to say not at all. Marrying his daughter is buying loyalty. I’ll have something precious of his if he decides to pull any shit.

She’s probably boring, the perfect little mafia princess.

I frown as the girl in the mask struggles. This isn’t something I can write off as a heated conversation anymore. She’s frantic.

I grab my gun, right as the guy hits the girl.

“Fucker.” I don’t like that kind of violence. My mam brought us up with fucking manners.

The girl in the mask hits him and he hits her back, throwing her down to the ground.

She’s up fast and pulls a move a football hooligan would admire, slamming him in the stomach with her foot like his body is a football and she’s trying to score a goal.

This time the supposed cop doesn’t hit her; he smacks her in the face.

She falls and meets the pavement with intent.

And I make a snap decision, right as he pulls his gun on her.

She struggles to get up.

Rage breaks free, cold and merciless from deep in my bones. I zero in on the fucker as I quickly walk across the quiet street, gun out. The only people outside now are us and the bouncer.

Just as the guy raises his hand to her again, he must see me because he turns with a surprised look on his face, pausing with his hand in the air.

I squeeze off two bullets. Chest. Head.