God Of Vengeance (Kings Of Mafia)

My phone starts to ring, and seeing Dario’s name on the screen, I answer, “You better have good news for me. My men killed the fucking uncle.”

“Miguel’s in Miami.” I can hear the relief in his voice, and it finds an echo in my chest.

“Wheels up in thirty minutes,” I order. “Let the others know we’re meeting at the airfield.”

“On it.”

Ending the call, I lock eyes with Carlo. “Dario found Miguel. The fucker’s in Miami.”

Climbing to his feet, he says, “Let’s go.”

As I walk out of the lounge, I signal for Vito and Emilio to join us.

When they catch up to us, I mutter, “Get a group of men to meet us at the airfield. I want them heavily armed. We’re attacking Miguel.”

“Got it, boss,” Emilio says, immediately pulling out his phone to make the call.

We hurry out of the club, and once we’re all in the SUV, Carlo starts the engine. “Fucking finally.”

“You can say that again,” I mutter, more than ready to put an end to Miguel.

I haven’t been home in two weeks, and I’m exhausted.

Fuck, it feels longer than two weeks.

The drive to the airfield takes forty minutes, and by the time Carlo stops the SUV, I have zero patience for the three-hour flight to Miami.

Hopefully, the fucker doesn’t disappear before we get to him. I’ll lose my fucking shit if that happens.

I climb out of the SUV and stalk to where Angelo, Dario, and Renzo are waiting.

“It’s a good day,” Dario says. “We know where Miguel is. Why aren’t you happy?”

“I am,” I growl.

“Sure as fuck doesn’t look like it.”

“Dario, I’m not in the mood for your shit today. Let’s get this over with so I can take some time off to deal with–” I catch myself before mentioning Gabriella and our upcoming wedding.

I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, and losing my temper, I shout, “Get on the fucking plane.”

When I enter the cabin, I take my seat. Angelo sits down beside me and gives me a questioning look. I shake my head so he won’t start asking questions.

I just want to focus on killing Miguel. That’s my main priority right now.

Once all the men have boarded, Dario says, “Franco’s babies are sick. They all have the shits.”

“Christ, poor man,” Angelo mutters. “I’d rather go to war than deal with three babies who all have diarrhea.”

“Can we not talk about shit,” I growl.

“Seriously, who pissed you off?” Angelo asks me.

“Just focus on the mission,” I snap.

The other men know not to push me any further, and after the private jet’s taken off and we’re in the air, Dario inspects the weapons we always keep onboard.

Once he’s done, he takes a seat again and checks his phone.

My thoughts turn to the past two weeks. The hotel burning down.

The attack on my men.

The attack on my men has been bothering me. Tommy said it wasn’t drug dealers but trained men.

If it wasn’t Miguel, then who would have the guts to gun down my men?

Dario lets out a sigh, then Renzo asks, “What?”

“Miguel hasn’t been spotted again.”

Fuck.

With my eyes locked on the oval window beside my seat, I ask, “Where was he last seen?”

“A set of traffic lights near one of his clubs.”

“He’ll probably be there until late,” Renzo says. “Which means we’ll have to wait him out.”

“Or we go in.” Looking at the other heads of the Cosa Nostra, I mutter, “I want this done as quickly as possible. We’ve wasted enough time on this fucker.”

“How do you want to do this, Damiano?” Angelo asks.

I play out a couple of scenarios in my head before answering, “We’ll all go into the club. Our men as well. We’ll walk up to the fucker as a family, and I’ll kill him in front of everyone. It will send a message not to fuck with us.”

Just in case someone else is behind the fire and killing of my men.

“And the witnesses?” Renzo asks.

I wave a careless hand in the air. “Let them talk.”

When we finally touch down in Miami, I feel fucking moody from the flight.

We head to the SUVs Emilio arranged for us and pile into the vehicles.

During the drive, I tap my fingers impatiently on my thigh, and when we pull up to the club, it’s quiet because it’s still early.

We climb out of the SUVs, then Renzo asks, “What do you want to do?”

“Let’s go knock on the door,” I mutter.

“You think they’re just going to open for us?” Renzo asks another question.

All the fucking questions are starting to aggravate me, and I growl, “Of course not. I’m not fucking stupid.”

Lifting my arm, I signal for my men to move closer.

I look at Tommy, who’s carrying a grenade launcher, and order, “Blow the door.”

I can feel Angelo, Renzo, and Dario staring at me, but ignore them.

Tommy launches the grenade, and I watch with satisfaction as it blows a hole in the front of the club.

When I stalk toward the hole, my men follow. I pull my Glock from behind my back and take off the safety.

Carlo shoves an extra magazine into my hand before he takes the lead while ordering, “Stay behind me.”

The air is filled with smoke, and I glance over my shoulder, finding Angelo right behind me.

Our eyes meet momentarily, then we reach the end of the hallway. When Carlo sets foot in a dance area, gunfire erupts around us.

“Move!” Carlo shouts, and when he ducks to the left, I follow him, my arm lifting as I return fire to the second floor, that must be the VIP area.

Miguel is definitely here.

We duck into a hallway that leads to a restroom, and with the meager cover, Carlo and I try to pick off the enemy one by one.

When Angelo tries to move forward to help out, I mutter, “We’ve got this.”

There’s a lone fucker with a submachine gun hiding behind the pillar.

Not knowing the whereabouts of the rest of my team, I shout, “Where the fuck are you?”

“DJ’s booth,” Renzo yells.

Fuck, they don’t have a clear shot of the bastard.

Suddenly Carlo darts out from behind our hiding place, and my heart fucking stops as I watch him slide across the floor before he ends the fucker with a kill shot to the head.

When he climbs to his feet, I nod at him with pride filling my chest, then I shout at the others, “Get your asses out here.”

Carlo catches up to me as I head for the stairs, and when we’re heading up them, I mutter, “Good job.”

“Thanks,” he breathes as he reloads his gun.

Halfway up, I glance behind me where Angelo and Big Ricky are, then I see Dario running toward us while Renzo keeps an eye out for any stragglers.

This is too fucking easy.

As soon as the VIP area comes into view, my eyes lock on Miguel. He’s seated at a table, with his men forming a half circle around him.

What the fuck is he playing at?

“Did you really have to go to all this trouble?” Miguel asks, his eyes locked on me.

“Yes,” I mutter as I pull out a chair and take a seat at the table. Looking at Carlo, I nod toward the bar.

I turn my gaze back to Miguel, and staring at the fucker, I let out a sigh. “All you had to do was listen, but no, you had to be stubborn and come into our territory.”

“There’s a lot of money to be made in New York,” he says. “The deal still stands.”

I notice the sweat beading on his forehead.

Carlo places a tumbler of whiskey down on the table, and picking it up, I take a sip.

When I set the tumbler down again, I murmur, “As good as a thirty percent share sounds, I have to decline.”

My eyes narrow on the fucker, and unable to hold back a second longer, my arm flies up, and I pull the trigger. I watch as the bullet hits him right between the eyes. His head snaps back, and his mouth drops open.

Intense satisfaction pours into my chest as I watch him drop dead to the floor.

As the bullets start to fly, Dario plows into me, and the fucker tackles me off the chair. Hitting the floor, his knee slams into my thigh.

The gunfight doesn’t even last a minute, and when the last of Miguel’s men drops dead, Dario moves off me and slumps down on the floor beside me.

“Christ,” he mutters.

I lift my hand and hold my thumb and pointer finger an inch apart. “You came this close to kneeing me in the balls, fucker.”

Dario lets out a burst of laughter, then says, “I’m pretty sure I took a bullet for you.”

“What?” I snap, and darting up, I check him for gunshot wounds.

Just as I see the blood on his side, he says, “Flesh wound on my back.”

I shove him before climbing to my feet, “That’s not taking a fucking bullet.” I glance around the area, then ask, “Everyone okay?”

“Yeah, just need to visit the clinic,” Vincenzo, one of Renzo’s men, mutters. “I took a bullet in the leg.”

One of his friends moves closer to help him down the stairs.

I glance at Miguel’s body.

He won’t be the last enemy I have to face, but I’m taking today as a win.

“Let’s go,” I mutter.

“Someone going to give me a hand?” Dario asks where he’s still lying by my feet.

I glance down at him, and shaking my head, I grab hold of his hand and haul him to his feet.

As my friends and men head down the stairs, I reach for the tumbler of whiskey Carlo poured before I killed Miguel and down the amber liquid.

“One down. God only knows how many to go,” Carlo mutters.

I pat his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”