Chapter 8 - BULLETS AND PROBABILITIES
For a fraction of a second, Domenic’s brain tried to process the threat of the FBI against the immediate threat of Matteo’s gun. His grip on Chloe loosened by a fraction of an inch.
It was all the margin Matteo needed.
Matteo’s Glock cracked once. A single, perfect shot.
Domenic’s eyes widened, a dark spot appearing between his brows. He collapsed backward, dropping his weapon. Chloe screamed, falling to her knees on the bloody concrete.
Silence rushed back into the room, heavy and absolute.
Sophie ran to her sister, wrapping her arms around the trembling woman. “I’ve got you, Chlo. I’ve got you.”
Chloe clung to her twin, sobbing hysterically into her sweater. “Sophie, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Matteo stood over his cousin’s body, his face an unreadable mask of grief and cold rage. He holstered his weapon and turned to look at the twins. His empire was fractured, his blood had betrayed him, but as he looked at the woman who had casually strolled into a gunfight armed with nothing but logic and a bluff, something profound shifted in his chest.
“Leo,” Matteo called out softly.
“Yeah, Boss.”
“Clean this up. Send a message to Vincent Moretti. Tell him the war is over. We’re taking the West Loop.”
Matteo walked over to Sophie, offering a bloodstained hand. She looked at it, then at his face, and took it. His grip was warm, solid, anchoring her in the adrenaline-soaked aftermath.
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“You lied,” Matteo murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “About the FBI email.”
“I assess risk,” Sophie said, adjusting her glasses with her free hand. “Sometimes the best risk is a bold lie.”
