Chapter 2 - THE ANATOMY OF A KILL
“You said you know where fabric tears, Donatella. Let’s see if you know how a man breaks.”Cosimo braced himself to spring forward, prepared to shield her with his own body despite his ruptured stitches. But before he could make a sound, Donatella acted.
She didn't wait to be discovered. With the explosive speed of a coiled spring, she lunged out from beneath the table. Before the hitman could even register her movement, she drove the heel of her heavy leather boot directly into his kneecap. A horrific SNAP echoed through the basement.
The man shrieked, collapsing forward, but Donatella was already moving. She grabbed his extended wrist, twisted it until the bone popped out of its socket, and drove her titanium blade upward, right through the soft tissue beneath his jawline.
The hitman’s voice died in his throat. He choked once, his eyes rolling back into his head as he slumped heavily onto the floor, pooling blood onto the worn linoleum.
“What the hell—” the second hitman shouted from across the room, spinning his weapon toward the shadow.
Cosimo didn't miss his cue. Seizing the distraction, he roared as he launched his massive frame out from under the table, tackling the second man into a massive rack of heavy wool winter coats. The rack collapsed with a thunderous roar. Despite the blinding agony tearing through his torso, Cosimo pinned the man’s throat with his massive forearm, choking the life out of him while violently wresting the silenced pistol from his grip.
Pfft. Pfft.
Two muffled shots rang out in the dark as Cosimo fired directly into the man’s chest.
The basement went quiet again, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of two survivors.
Cosimo stood up slowly, clutching his side. A dark stain was spreading across his fresh bandages. He looked down at the dead man at his feet, then turned his gaze slowly toward Donatella.
She was standing over the first hitman, calmly wiping her titanium blade on a scrap of discarded burlap. Her face was pale, but her hands were entirely steady. There was no remorse in her eyes—only a cold, analytical calculation.
“Antonio Rizzo didn't just teach you how to sew,” Cosimo said, a dark, dangerous fascination gleaming in his eyes. “He raised an assassin.”
“My father raised a survivor,” Donatella corrected sharply, throwing the bloody burlap aside. “And right now, your presence here is a death sentence for both of us. Those men were advanced scouts. More will be coming when they don't check in.”
“Then we leave,” Cosimo said, checking the magazine of the captured pistol. “Together.”
“I don’t go anywhere with mafia royalty, Don Bellini. This is your war, not mine.”
“It became your war the second you used that knife,” Cosimo said, pointing the gun toward the iron sewing machine where she had hidden the ledger. “And it became your war because of what’s inside that book. Your father’s death wasn't an isolated incident. The Morettis are cleaning house. They’re wiping out every legacy family in New York to make room for a foreign syndicate. If you stay here, you’ll be dead before sunrise. Come with me, and I give you the head of the man who ordered your father’s murder.”
Donatella looked at her ruined shop. The sanctuary she had spent a decade building was defiled. The scent of death was heavy in the air. She knew he was right. The illusion of her quiet, safe life had been shattered into a thousand bloody pieces.
She walked over to the sewing machine, retrieved the blood-stained ledger, and slipped it inside a heavy waterproof canvas bag along with her sewing kit and her knife.
“If you cross me, Cosimo,” she said, her voice dropping into a chillingly calm register, “I won’t just stitch you up next time. I’ll make sure you bleed out from the inside.”
May you like
Cosimo smiled, a genuine, wicked expression that made him look terrifyingly alive. “I would expect nothing less from my new tailor. Let’s go.”
They slipped out through the coal chute in the back of the basement just as the headlights of three more black SUVs illuminated the front of the shop.
