“Angelo,” Levi is practically begging now. “We can’t do this. We can’t start a war because of an—an infraction like this. I understand you’re angry. The man deserves punishment. But we can’t just kill him.”
I prod the Albanian in the head with the gun. “Do you think the De Maggio name is a joke?” I rasp quietly. “Do you think Carlo De Maggio is a f*****g court jester? Is that it? Eh? Speak.”
“N-no,” he whines. “Please. I have a child. A son. His name is Driton.”
I stroke the trigger lightly, not pulling yet. Maybe three pounds of pressure out of the five required to end this miserable worm’s life. I feel like my brain is going to burst out of my skull. Thinking is difficult.
I crack the gun across his jaw and fall on him, hitting him two, three, four times more in the face.
Only then
