Page 1 of Dark Breaker

1

Fabio

Iregret nothing.

I open fire at the Moretti coward hiding behind the door of his cheap Maserati. I don’t care how well-connected his family is. I don’t care if killing him starts a war between us. They tried my patience. Tested it to the limits.

His sister damaged my property.

No one touches what’s mine.

The Moretti remains hidden behind that door of his. I’m sure I’m hitting him—doors can’t stop bullets, unlike the lies the movies sell people. I’m certain I’m tearing him a new asshole. I can’t tell you how much that pleases me.

I fire again. I hear people screaming in the parking lot but their voices hardly register. They’re not part of my world. Not part of what I’m about to do. It’s almost like I’m viewing myself from far away, observing from a distance, while my body mechanically approaches that door. I’ve pinned my quarry and I’m moving in for the kill. He’s not firing back. That tells me I’ve scored at least one hit, if not more.

But before I can reach the door and peer into his vehicle, the she-devil responsible for all this jumps onto my back. Her fists pummel my head. She shouts something incomprehensible.

I toss her aside like paper and she crashes onto my lambo.

Bullets whizz past.

The Moretti coward is shooting back after all.

I leap over the hood of my vehicle and roll to the far side for cover.

I consider returning fire but I think I’ve made my point. It’s time for me to make my exit. Who can say how many more Morettis are on the way? It’s a big family. Meanwhile, for me my closest men are about ten minutes away.

Yes, it’s unwise to stay.

Staying low, I open the door and pull myself inside. My soft top has caved in where I tossed her: is the she-devil still up there?

Well, she better get off quick.

I start the engine and flip the paddle to reverse. I slam the accelerator down and when I’m out of the stall I hit the brakes and switch to the forward direction.

I’m moments I’m well away from the lot, the Moretti coward and his sister a mere memory.

But not a distant one.

As I race down the autostrada I glance in the rearview mirror. They don’t seem to be following.

I realize my hands are shaking. Adrenaline hangover. I’m used to it. It’s common after my body produces a fight or flight response. I’m going to feel like absolute shit for the next half an hour.

Now that I’m coming back down from the high of the gunfight, I’m starting to realize exactly what it is I’ve just done. I can be rash at times. Even reckless.

But never to the point of starting a war with a rival family.

There’s going to be blood spilled tonight. A whole lot of blood.

I regret nothing.

Rosa

30 minutes earlier

I pullup at the gas station, next to a sparkling white Lamborghini convertible. A man dressed in a white tuxedo and black fedora is filling up the tank.

His head is bowed so I can’t see his face. Not that I care. Money and all its trappings don’t impress me. Never did, even when I was dirt poor and living with my brothers on the streets. That someone would openly flaunt their wealth like that is only a sign of arrogance as far as I’m concerned.