“She knew them, Chaim,” Decker broke in. “They killed her because she could identify them. It wasn’t any accident.”

Donatti said, “They don’t call you lieutenant for nothing.”

“No, you’re wrong. It wasn’t like that at all!” Chaim protested. “They said they could rescue her.” He started sobbing. “They said she struggled, that she was screaming. It wasn’t meant to happen that way.” He became hysterical. “I didn’t kill her. I DIDN’T KILL HER—”

Donatti’s gun spat three pellets of hot lead, leaving Chaim Lieber with three blood-filled holes in the center of his chest. He was still forming words when he fell to the ground, his lips ring-shaped, mouthing the letter O.

The air smothered with its silence. Decker’s heart was pounding against his chest. “What… why’d you… why’d you do that?”

“Why?” Donatti glared at him with stone eyes. “Because that bitch was mine, Decker. It would have been one thing if she left on her own, but she didn’t. She was taken from me. Nobody steals from a Donatti and gets away with it. Nobody! Not even her father!”

He was panting like the dog he was.

“Besides, I dislike self-justifying bastards. Asshole’s worse than I am. At least, I’m honest about what I do.”

Donatti was holding two guns—Merrin’s Smith & Wesson .32 in his left hand, his own semiautomatic in the right. He went over to Lieber’s body and tattooed the inert hand with gunpowder by firing off the rest of the magazine from the semiautomatic, in various directions. When he was done, he left the gun at Chaim’s side. Several of the stray bullets had missed Decker’s feet by inches. When Donatti got back on his feet, he was holding Merrin’s revolver in his left hand.

“If anyone had shot you, it would have been Merrin, don’t you think?”

Decker regarded Donatti. He was sweating hard, breathing quickly. Throughout the process, he’d been grimacing in pain. If Decker moved now, if he was quick enough…

Donatti read his thoughts and fished out the Beretta from his jacket. He had the Smith & Wesson fixed on his head, the Beretta on his chest. “C’mon. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

The opportunity had come and gone.

Donatti kept the .32 on Decker’s head. “You ever been shot?”

“Several times.”

“Where?”

“Left shoulder…arm.”

“Hurts like hell.” The Beretta still in his right hand, Donatti pulled up his black sweater, exposing his bandage.

“Who did that?” Decker asked. “Merrin? Chaim? One of Merrin’s boys?”

Donatti sidestepped the question. “It wasn’t the first time I’ve been plugged, but I still don’t like it.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Hold still.” Donatti pointed the .32 at Decker’s chest. “And I mean real still.”

The gun spat fire, grazing Decker’s rib cage. He jumped as pain burst through his body.

“Now we’re twins,” Donatti announced.

“Fuck you!” Decker snarled as he grabbed his side. Blood reddened his fingers. Enraged, he bolted forward, but Donatti had taken several steps back, brandishing the weapons toward Decker’s head.