Page 59 of A Murder of Crows

Dom loosens it immediately, and the man gasps. His eyes are bright, wet, when he looks up at me. “Please—,”

“Again.”

He howls this time, the noise abruptly cutting off as Dom yanks it even harder. His eyes bulge, veins purpling, blood vessels bursting in the whites of his eyes.

Just like he’s done to me.

“Stop.”

Dom hands me the end of the rope, and I tug it, drawing his attention. Spit has collected in the corner of his mouth. “Up.”

There’s barely any strength in my hold, but I don’t need it. The rope hangs loose as he shuffles ahead, my gun providing all the incentive he needs as we march slowly towards the dining hall.

Dom stays close to me, his hand at my elbow. “You gonna make it?”

My nod is grim.

It feels like an eternity until we reach the doors. The Crows open them, silent as he drags himself through them. A little faster now. As though redemption lies ahead.

Perhaps he’s remembering the men I sent back. Tied, embarrassed, but alive.

It takes a few moments for people to notice. To see the rope. The gun in my hands.

The state of my fucking face.

And then there are whispers, people standing up to see. The hall is full, and as we pass the Fusco table, someone shouts in recognition.

I ignore them, trusting in Dom and the Crows to watch my back.

I’m not in the position to fight a battle on two fronts right now. I can barely keep myself upright, but I force my back to straighten, to put one foot in front of the other.

Everyone stands as I reach the dais. Dante grips the table, his knuckles whitening. Luciano stares at my face. Even Stefano stands.

Giovanni crosses his arms, but I can see something in his expression as we reach the bottom of the steps. Surprise, maybe.

Like he didn’t expect me to survive.

The man crashes down to his knees. I can see him shaking, see his shoulders curve inwards. I walk up behind him, press my gun to the back of his neck, and I look Giovanni Fusco in the eyes.

“Remember who lit the match,” I rasp. His face tightens.

And then I pull the trigger.

Blood sprays across the steps, blood and matter, and the body slumps forward. A scream rings out from the Fusco table, and I spare a thought for those who will be grieving tonight. In the days that follow. One, single, brief thought.

It’s all the empathy I have to spare right now.

It takes me longer than I’d like to walk around him. For my shoes to coat themselves in his blood as I slowly, so fucking slowly, climb the steps.

Luciano silently pulls out the empty middle seat, and I slide into it, my neck aching. I place my gun in front of me.

My eyes scan the silent hall.

Nobody meets my stare.

Not even the Fuscos.

Not as I slowly work my way through the meal Dom brings me, his face hard. He knows better than to bring me something soft, even as my stomach tightens in dread at the sight of it. Every bite is accompanied by burning, savage pain as I try to eat.