I glanced at Gia, who had her eyes squeezed shut, her hands on her face, fingers pressing against her temples.

“He did.”

He said it so coldly. I raised my gun and pulled the trigger, putting a bullet into his other shoulder.

Roman cried out in agony.

“Get him up,” I ordered the guard behind him, who lifted him back to his knees.

“A deal!”

“So before Angus stepped in, you’d agreed to help Victor overthrow his uncle for support for yourself, for money, for power, so when the time came that Franco Benedetti died, you’d be ready to take over more than the Benedetti share, the mourning Consigliere, a man like a brother to the fallen Benedetti whose sons deserted him.”

“Mercy, Dominic,” Roman begged. “I made mistakes—”

“You ordered Sergio’s murder. You betrayed my father. Those things cannot be forgiven, Uncle,” I spat.

“Please, Salvatore—” He turned to him, his final plea.

Salvatore remained silent.

“I can drag this out for hours, but because you gave me this, I’m going to show you that mercy,” I said.

“Please, Dominic. Please, I—”

“I’m sending a message today, Uncle. I’m letting everyone know that if you betray me, you die. You die a very slow, a very painful death.”

Roman sat on the floor in a bloody heap, crying like a fucking baby, begging for his worthless life.

I turned to Gia and held out the gun. “Do you want to finish him?”

She stared at him, never once looking at me. Tears ran down her now alabaster face, all color having drained from it as she watched the horror before her. She shook her head and turned to me with a look of such utter desperation that I faltered.

“Take her away. I’ll finish this,” Salvatore said.

“I need to—”

Salvatore turned to me. “No, you don’t. Take care of her.”

I looked once more at my uncle, who now began to beg Salvatore. Tucking the pistol into the back of my pants, I took Gia and walked her quickly out of the room and up the stairs, lifting her into my arms and carrying her when she shook too badly to walk. I closed the door to my bedroom behind us and set her down in the bathroom, wanting to clean the blood that had splattered onto her bare legs, her shoes, her dress.

She trembled as I stripped her, talking to her, not sure she heard a word I said as tears poured from her eyes.

“He is partially responsible for your brother’s death. You shouldn’t feel sorry for him.”

“I know.”

She said it on a sob as I turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm.

“It’s not that. I don’t—”

“He killed my brother,” I said. “He would have killed Salvatore.”

“I know,” she said again, clinging to me when I tried to move her into the shower.