Undeserving (Undeniable #5)(98)

"Of course you can! Women have been givin' birth since the dawn of time. It's like pushing out a watermelon! And I'll be right there with you. And then Preacher will-oh shit, Debbie you're bleeding!"

Debbie felt Sylvia's hands on her legs, pushing them apart. She heard a gasp, and then, "Tiny! Tiny! We need to get her to the car, now!"

• • •

Pulling on his leather riding gloves, Preacher strode inside the warehouse, Rocky beside him. Dark and damp with humidity, the crumbling structure stunk of mildew and rot.

They turned the corner into a larger, somewhat lighter area, the shattered windows letting in what little light the overcast afternoon offered. The smells were different in this room, metallic in nature, along with the pungent aroma of gun smoke.

A half dozen or so bodies littered the large space-Rossi foot soldiers. Blood seeped from various wounds, pooling around the dead and dying men, further discoloring the stained cement.

Somebody groaned- a wet, gurgling chest rattle that pinged distractedly through Preacher's thoughts before lodging firmly in his consciousness.

He would always remember that sound. It was the sound of death-live and in stereo.

Preacher passed Frank, who was standing among a handful of Road Warriors. Then Joe, who stood alone, a gun in his hand and body at his feet. He passed more Road Warriors and more of his men. He didn't look at a single face, either living or dead. His sole focus was on Hightower, and the man kneeling at his feet.

Rocky veered off, leaving Preacher to continue on alone. The blade at his side was heavy-a freshly sharpened piece of stainless steel that had once belonged to The Judge. It banged against his hip in time to his steps. In time to his heartbeat. In time to the quickly forming lump pulsing inside his throat.

Reaching Hightower, Preacher peered down his nose at the man on his knees. With a head full of white hair, a face full of wrinkles, and wearing a pressed black suit with a red pocket square, Salvatore Rossi looked less like the head of the Rossi crime family and more like an impeccably dressed grandfather.

Salvatore's ancient eyes flicked up, meeting his, his expression blank, his demeanor strangely calm. "Damon," he greeted him, his Italian accent rolling and thick.

Preacher blinked at him, not comprehending Salvatore's cool composure. It was hardly the attitude Preacher would have expected from a man who had to know he was about to die.

Especially when his own heart was flapping wildly inside his chest.

It was also another thing Preacher would never forget. Much later in his life, when his body count was plentiful and he'd long forgotten what it felt like to solve his problems with mere words, he would still remember the look on Salvatore Rossi's face. 

"Are all my boys dead?" Still so absurdly, unnervingly calm, Salvatore raised one bushy white eyebrow.

Preacher dropped down on one knee and stared into the old man's eyes. "Your sons, your grandsons. All of ‘em."

Weeks ago Preacher had finally managed to appropriate the Rossis' Columbian connection right out from under their noses. With the Road Warriors now under Preacher's control, and ready to form Silver Demon clubs all over the country, the Columbian's potential to increase their revenue by 200% was too lucrative an offer to refuse.

Then today, after months of strategic planning, putting every player in place, the Silver Demons and the Road Warriors had taken out the Rossi underboss, each Rossi caporegime, and any foot soldiers that had been with them at the time of their ambush. With only scattered foot soldiers remaining, the Rossis wouldn't be recovering from this anytime soon-if ever.

Ending the life of the Rossi family Mafioso, Salvatore Rossi, was Preacher's job. A blow he'd long been dreaming of delivering personally.

The corner of Salvatore's mouth quirked. "I knew you'd do great things, Damon. You always were a hungry boy. I could see it in your eyes."

Preacher's nostrils flared. His chest caved and his heart quaked. "You killed them."

Salvatore's expression didn't change. "No. I did not. But that doesn't matter anymore, eh?"

Preacher jumped to his feet and snarled, "No, it fuckin' doesn't."

Pulling his blade from its sheath, Preacher moved to stand behind Salvatore. Gripping a handful of the old man's hair, he wrenched his head back and pressed the edge of the blade to his throat. A thin red line welled amid his wrinkled, sagging skin.

Salvatore didn't make a sound, didn't move a muscle. Neither did Preacher.

Preacher had gotten into countless fights during the course of his life. He'd broken men's bones and beaten men into unconsciousness. He'd done some sketchy things in prison to ensure his own safety-things he wasn't proud of.

But he'd never killed a man before.

The finality of this moment barreled into Preacher like a freight train. There would be no going back, no do-overs, no time to press pause and just drift along while he sorted through his bullshit.