The Mafia King's Trophy
His hands flex at his sides, his eager fingers twitching toward the Glock holstered under his jacket.
“Think they know we’re coming?” Markus asks, his voice light, almost bored, as he spins a blade in his hand like a toy.
“They will soon enough,” I reply, my tone clipped.
He grins, a glint of something unhinged flashing in his eyes. “Good. I’m in the mood for some fireworks.”
Of course, he is. Markus has always been like this. Controlled on the surface, polite even, but underneath? A goddamn psychopath, and tonight I’m letting him off the leash.
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