36

JUMAINE

Fucking beautiful.

The whole scene was a thing of beauty. The way Rock had hoisted that asshole over the edge would be etched into my mind forever.

I wished I could have stuck around and watched the ensuing mayhem for just a couple of minutes. But all I could do when we got out of that hotel was steal some glances at it in the direction of the blue and red flashing lights down the street.

I could imagine it, though. It was a wise guy’s worst nightmare. Dons in their fancy suits and tuxedos, surrounding a smashed car and a ruined body, yelling at their lap dogs. Gesturing frantically. Making phone calls. Proving that they weren’t as unflappable as they claimed to be.

Except for Don Gambini. I somehow thought that he might be taking this all in stride. Of course, since he’d sanctioned the hit, he’d had a heads up.

The drive back to the cabin was wild. We were laughing and high-fiving each other. We wouldn’t even wait to get to the mountain to celebrate properly. Or that’s what we claimed. But I think that each of us were most eager to see Margo.

Rocello stopped to pick up more booze on the way back so that we could enjoy our victory.

Victory… I repeated that word in my head many times over. I couldn’t believe it. The powerful mob boss was gone, and we were still breathing? Up until a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed it. It was true; I thought the odds were stacked against us. We didn’t have Roscano’s resources. We didn’t have his manpower or his connections. In the end, though, we had prevailed.

I hopped out the moment Rock parked next to the cabin. I picked up the case of whiskey, its top nudging my chin as I looked up ahead. The moonlight revealed a strange sight. Margo was near the side of the cabin, leaning against the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. Even in the dim light, I could see the tear tracks on her face.

I dropped the whiskey, but Slade ran past me, getting there first.

“Margo, what’s wrong?” Slade was quick to ask. “We’re all here. We made it. We’re okay—and Roscano’s dead.”

“I know. His death’s all over the internet. I just,” she sobbed and sucked in a deep breath. “Can’t believe you did it.”

“We did,” Rocello bragged, a smug smile on his face. “He’s gone. It’s all over.”

“Come here. All of you,” she requested, unfurling her arms, more tears streaming down her face. We all wrapped our arms around her small figure, her subsiding sniffles the only sound my ears could pick up.

“Thank you,” she croaked, her body shaking. “I’ll never be able to repay you for what you did for me.”

“Not just for you,” I corrected her. “That fucker wanted to kill us, too, remember?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, looking up at us. “Thanks for the reminder, but you still saved my life. Again.”

“Enough with this sentimental stuff,” I said, rubbing her lower back. “Let’s go inside and drink our asses off. I think we deserve it, don’t we?” If the whiskey had survived me dropping it, that was.

“You bet your ass we do,” Rocello agreed, winking over at me.

“I’ll get the ice,” Slade stated, entering the cabin first.

“What are they saying online about Roscano?” Rocello asked, Margo passing him by.

“I must have read the same article twenty times tonight,” she claimed, turning to him. “Tragedy at the Ritz. Nick Roscano victim of a tragic accident.”

“Accident,” Slade chuckled, high fiving me and then Rocello. “I couldn’t have dreamed of a better way to end that bastard. Violent. Terrifying. And most of all? It looked like an accident. The organization can’t blame us for this, even if they want to.”

“Which they won’t,” Rocello went on. “This was a sanctioned hit. At least one mob boss authorized it.”

Inside, I poured amber liquid out of one of the bottles that hadn’t smashed. We clinked our glasses together while Margo gulped down half of us hers. She didn’t bother leaving her own glass on the table. “Refill, please.”

“Whatever you say, Ms. Heir to the Throne,” Slade teased with a smile. “Which reminds me; we have to go over to Roscano’s mansion and get that will.”

“I know it’s a little too early to ask, but what are you going to do with all that money?” Rocello asked.

“You’re right,” she giggled, lifting her gaze up to his. “It is too early. Right now, I just want to get drunk.”

“Don’t we all?” Slade laughed out, holding his glass closer to his chest.

“I never enjoyed killing,” Rocello confessed, more booze moistening his lips. “It just came with the territory. But part of me wishes I could go back and throw Roscano off that fucking roof again. And again.”

“I can understand why,” Margo said, nodding. “We went through a lot because of him.”

“We had to go through hell,” I corrected her. “But it’s over now.”

“Well done, Mr. DeLuca, Mr. Knight, and Mr. Winslow.” Margo’s voice was somehow sincere and flirtatious at the same time. “I’m proud of you. All of you.”

“You did pretty good, too,” I said. “Call me sexist, but I never thought a woman could keep her cool like you have throughout.”

She grinned at me. “Okay, you’re sexist.”

Rocello swung his arm around her. “I knew that. I knew from the first moment when she pulled a shotgun on two goons trying to rob her bar.”

I downed my drink and laughed. This felt like my reward—to have us all here together. It made me remember what it took for us to get here. The pain and the agony we had to endure, in order to get out of this ordeal alive. The weeks of uncertainty.

That’s why I fucking loved every second of this of this tonight. How couldn’t I? I had risked everything I had in the process, including my own life. We could spend the rest of the night laughing, drinking, and hopefully, having amazing sex. We had earned our freedom, and now was the time to enjoy the fruits of our labor.

It was about damn time.