The Broken Artist's Spectacular Mafia Comeback

nna

banquet, I drive ba

secured everything before

k the hidden wall safe, hopin

vanish, leaving only the dry

metal door

fe is

ull out my new burner phon

on the se

book?" I ask,

sound staticky

as a reference for the new front company. It is ma

systems I designed when he had nothing, the charcoal sketches I drew at his bedside while he slept, the

to an Associate?" I demand, a

ll before he

y reaching

complex on the grittier e

d take the stairs two at a

fist again

it, I push past her a

onto the livi

Chronicles

there, a switchb

eparating my sketches from the coded bl

epping toward the tab

s me a sl

tion, not loyalty to Victor, but something far more specific. Recognition. S

I have the Capo's explicit permission to disman

s the blade into a charcoal sketch

r the leat

es not

rips the bo

r hand, the one holding the

l pressure across the back of my right hand, clin

blade fin

ng, no theatrical

a cut so fine it is almost painless, like ice drawn across the skin. It

ctor's portrait, does the delayed, blinding pain erupt-a thousand rusted nails driving into the b

oody switchblade

g away until her sh

hrieks, her eyes wide with a prac

pull my ruined h

n my wrist, soa

oal sketch of Victor stares up at me from the table, its eyes now obscured by a spreading cri

licked fingers and hit the emerge

an Associate for stealing syndic

r, the apartment

the threshold, his gaze sweeping the scene-Gia against the wall, t

e pooling bloo

rs, the white flash of bone visible through the wound. He knows. He was trained in field medic

ecognition. The man I saved is still in there,

loses like a do

ming to me, h

eding body and steps toward

er. The horror vanishes, replaced by the

t me, his face contorted. "You broke into a

stare

lessly, the stark white of bone

t!" Gia cries from behind his

e, not my wound. He does not look at my hand again. He cannot look at my hand.

blade did. He is ch

arm wrapped

eavy footsteps so

rs walk into the room

ay a word

eaving my book lying in t

shed toe of his leather shoe, leaving a dark stain. He flinches. Ju

ago-drops his gaze to the floor. He cannot look at me. And in that silence, I understand exactly what I have become: a ghost, already being erased fro