Page 71 of Malachai
He stepped closer to the desk, the gun still steady in his grip. He kicked Daddy’s dropped pistol across the floor, the heavy metal screeching sharply against the marble.
“But you seemed happy with him. So when Daddy ordered Malachai killed, I sent Zoe. You know how she gets down—straight headshots—but she didn’t even shoot him in the head. Wasn’t trying to kill him. Just a couple of shots through the Range Rover door.” He gave a short laugh that wasn’t remotely humorous. “Enough to make you see he ain’t supernatural and you can walk away. The nigga bleeds just like everybody else. And I’ll paint this city in blood now that I can, if I have to.”
Daddy let out a bloody, mocking chuckle, his eyes narrowing to razor-thin slits as he glared at Zaire. “You think... you think you are a king now?” he wheezed, blood spilling past his teeth. “Malachai will tear your throat out... and I hope I see you both in hell.”
Zaire looked at me head-on, his jaw tight, a single muscle ticking violently in his neck, completely tuning out the old man's dying curses.
“I love you. You can come back to Miami with me. Nobody is gonna make you do shit you don’t want to do. Not even the Hand of God. We see he bleeds.”
Then he turned back to Daddy. He didn't hesitate. He raised the gun, his finger squeezing the trigger.
Bang.
He put a bullet right between his eyes, effectively cutting off the old man's venom forever.
Daddy’s head snapped back hard. Blood and brain matter sprayed the wall behind him, ruining the expensive dark woodpaneling. The sound was final. The heavy silence that followed was even worse.
Zaire lowered the gun, calm as ever. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean silk handkerchief, and began to wipe down the grip of his weapon.
“Clean this up,” he told Zoe, his voice dropping right back into that clinical, business-like tone.
She nodded once and moved without a word, already pulling a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. I guess me and her would have to wait until later, at the very least I was going to beat her ass for shooting Malac, despite the reason.
Zaire looked at me again, his eyes searching mine. “You ready to go home, little sis?”
Chapter 41
Malachai
I sat upright in the hospital bed with a plastic chest tube still draining fluid from my side and Indigo fast asleep beside me in the uncomfortable vinyl chair. I’d been awake for three days. During the quiet hours of the night, she had told me everything that had gone down—with her father, with Cooly, and with her brother. She had chosen to stay with me instead of returning to Miami with Zaire.
Part of me never expected Big Gao to be the one who finally came for me. But I had forgotten the first rule I learned a long time ago: scared men are the most dangerous. They do stupid things. Desperate things.
I flexed my fingers around hers. Big Gao was dead. Zaire had finally grown a spine. But Cooly was still breathing. That last part didn’t sit right with me. The way he simply walked away after everything he’d said... after wanting Indigo so badly. It was entirely too easy. Men like him don’t just give up. They regroup. They wait. They come back when you think the war is over. I would always have to be on guard until he was in the ground, which meant he needed to be put there very soon.
I stared at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling, letting the heart monitors beep rhythmically around me. Indigo shifted slightly in her chair, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
A sharp, distinct knock sounded against the partially open door.
I reached automatically toward the suppressed Glock hidden beneath my heavy hospital blanket, my eyes tracking my guests as they stepped inside.
Raffaele Mercier. Tall, silver-haired, and wearing a tailored black suit that cost more than most men’s houses. He had eyes like cold, unyielding steel. Even half-drugged and stitched together with surgical thread, my spine straightened instinctively at his presence.
Indigo’s head snatched in his direction, then darted back to me, her eyes wide.
A second man stepped in directly behind him. Sal "The Iceman" Gravano. Tall, expressionless, clad in a sharp gray suit and black leather gloves. I’d heard horrific stories about him since I was a child sitting beside my father during smoke-filled meetings I wasn’t supposed to hear. Bodies found strangled with their own ties. Politicians disappearing into thin air. He’d been killing people before I was even born, and somehow, he still looked civilized enough to teach a class at a university.
Indigo stirred awake slowly beside me. The exact second she recognized Raffaele, she sat upright in her chair. Sal closed the heavy hospital door quietly behind him and remained posted there, his gloved hands folded in front of him like an undertaker waiting for permission to bury a body.
“Mr. Mercier,” she said carefully, her voice tight.
Raffaele smiled, though the warmth didn't reach his eyes. “Indigo. It’s nice to see you despite the current circumstances.” Mr. Mercier could be very cordial when you hadn’t crossed his lines. His cold eyes shifted toward me, and the pleasantness instantly vanished. “Malachai.”
I nodded once, keeping my hand steady beneath the blanket.
Raffaele sighed heavily, adjusting his heavy gold signet ring. “I have met you both before,” he said finally. “At weddings. Parties. Birthdays.” His gaze lingered on Indigo for a beat. “I like you both. Good kids.”
I waited for the blow.
