Page 112 of Steal My Heart

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The bag moves in and out with his over-exaggerated breaths he simply can’t receive.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

His fingernails dig into my forearms, drawing blood, but I don’t dare release my grip on the bag.

The man puts up a hell of a fight until I reach the sixty-second mark. His body stills, all of his weight collapsing into me.

“Shit.”

Easing him to the floor is a struggle, but I get him on his back. Eyes wide and lifeless, I don’t feel much of anything. My concerns about committing the act were unwarranted; I’m a Calvani through and through.

Grunting, I drag the corpse across the room and get it seated into the correct position. Mentally, I go through my checklist. I need to don gloves and then tie his neck to the doorknob; make it look like a suicide.

But first things first. Vitto hammered how this was so damn important, and I grab my teacher's phone from his pocket. The home screen is still unlocked from him checking his phone minutes earlier, and out of curiosity, I open the message screen. The first is an exchange from a contact named Sugar Daddy.

That’s a weird handler name for the feds.

I open up the thread, my jaw landing on the floor next to the corpse.

I stroll into my father’s office like I own the place. Because he doesn’t know it yet, but I do.

“Is it done?”

“Yes.” I take a seat, and he eyes the manila folder in my hands.

“Did you run into any problems?”

“No problems. Smooth as the silk tie my teacher hung himself with.”

“Good. Where is the phone?”

“In a safe location.”

“I told you to bring it here?—”

I slide the folder over his desk, and when he opens it, the look on his face is priceless. All the text messages between Sugar Daddy Vitto Calvani and his sugar baby, my fucking piano teacher, printed in high resolution. “‘Sugar Daddy.’ I wonder what our capos would think of these messages with your male sugar baby?” I taunt, knowing damn well the old guard harbors thinly veiled bigotry. “Or the videos?” I tsk. “You and your sugar baby liked to put on quite the show.” I nearly vomited when I pressed play on one of many of my father’s sex tapes.

His face turns from bright red to a painful-looking shade of purple.

“Not a fed plant; he was your lover. But sadly, things soured with your sugar baby.” Anger rising in me, I lean forward in my seat and hiss, “You tricked me into doing your dirty work.Were you really offering me the head of family position, or was this just a clever way of getting me to murder your lover boy?”

“Does it fucking matter?” He flicks the folder closed.

“No. I guess it doesn’t.” I cross my leg at the ankle, wrapping my hands around my knee. “It’d be a shame if Mama were to find those videos.”

He doesn’t yell.

Or threaten me.

Or even try to murder me.

Vitto Calvani laughs.

“You’re more like your old man than you care to admit.”

“I’ve got a kill switch,” I warn him. “If I die or get pinched for the murder, then all of your dirt—the texts and the nudes and the sex tapes and the love nest deed—will not only be sent to your capos and Mama, but to the local papers and news stations across the city. You want to burn the Calvani empire to the ground? I’m holding the lit match.”