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.
He made the mistake of glancing up. All across the room, all eyes were on him, waiting for him to finish it. He knew he couldn’t look weak, not in front of his own men, and especially not in front of the Road Warriors. Not if he expected to take control of them, to lead them.
So he did the only thing he could think of to do. He flipped his fucking switch and let it all back in—everything he’d long shut out.
He let his mother’s face fill his memory.
And he thought of his father.
He saw the smear of blood on the trailer door.
And then he recalled the day he was forced to watch as their matching coffins were lowered into the ground.
And just when he wanted to scream… he slid the blade across Salvatore Rossi’s throat instead.
The mob boss slumped to his side, wide-eyed and clawing at his throat. Both horrified and fascinated, Preacher watched as thick, dark blood spurted and gushed from the gaping wound in his neck.
“It’s done, then? You’re gonna patch us in?” Rocky’s booted feet drew precariously close to the blood creeping across the floor.
Preacher cleared his throat and prayed his voice didn’t shake. “I need you and your boys to lay low for a while, wait and see if we get any blowback. But yeah, it’s done.”
Rocky started to smile, and Preacher turned his attention back to Salvatore. The old man had gone still, though his mouth still worked soundlessly.
Preacher was suddenly struck with a memory.
When his he and his brothers were little, The Judge would take them fishing at the pier. He taught them all sorts of things—various fishing line knots, and what bait worked best for which fish. The fish they’d catch, The Judge would slap across the dock, killing them instantly.
They should never be needlessly cruel, The Judge had told them.
Again Preacher saw the smear of blood on the trailer door—an image that would never leave him.
And then he walked off, leaving Salvatore gasping for air.
? ? ?
Inside the clubhouse, half his club trailing behind him, Preacher headed into the kitchen. Quickly peeling off his gloves, he tossed them onto the countertop and moved toward the sink. Behind him, his men filed in. Nobody said a word.
Turning on the faucet, Preacher cupped his hands and splashed several handfuls of cold water on his face. Dripping wet, he gripped the counter and bowed his head. Preacher’s arms began to quiver.
He’d done it. He’d actually fucking done it.
It was so fucking surreal, this entire day. He’d avenged his parents and effectively ended the Rossi family. Him. Just a no-good kid from the neighborhood.
“Preacher?” Frank leaned his elbow on the counter. “How you doin’?”
Preacher’s eyes slid to Frank. His longtime friend had killed men today with the same ruthless efficiency that he did everything else. He didn’t appear bothered in the least. In fact, he seemed almost… tranquil.
Preacher couldn’t even begin to comprehend that kind of calm. He was… hell, he didn’t know what he was feeling, exactly.
Killing Salvatore—it had felt horrible.
And yet, also exhilarating. Powerful.
Preacher ran a hand over his face and blew out a breath. “I’m good,” he lied.
Frank stared at him, his gaze full of speculation and doubt. Straightening, Preacher folded his arms across his chest. “I’m good,” he growled.
“Good. ‘Cause they aren’t.” Frank’s gaze shifted.
Preacher turned, facing the kitchen and the four men spread throughout. Still no one spoke or even looked at one another.
“Smokey and Jim come back yet?” Preacher quietly asked Frank.
“Not yet.”
Preacher nodded and pushed away from the counter. After grabbing two bottles of liquor from a nearby cabinet, he handed one to Hightower. “You okay?”
Hightower often bragged about his many kills in Vietnam. Still, Preacher couldn’t imagine that killing men in a firefight was anything like the carefully calculated, up close and personal hits they’d exacted tonight.
His expression unreadable, Hightower nodded slowly. “Right as rain, Prez,” he drawled.
Preacher clapped him on the arm and turned to Bullet. Unable to hold his gaze, Bullet stared down at his boots.
“I ain’t sweatin’ it, my brother,” Bullet muttered. “There ain’t nothin’ so bad in this world that a wet, warm pussy can’t fix.”
Suddenly laughing, Hightower wrapped an arm around Bullet’s neck and squeezed. “You know it!”
Across the room, Knuckles was seated at the dining table, pale-faced and staring at his hands splayed out in front of him. Joe sat beside him, staring vacantly across the room, an unlit cigarette quivering between his lips.
Setting the second bottle down on the table, Preacher gripped Knuckles’ shoulder and bent down beside him. “You did good today.”
Bloodshot eyes lifted and narrowed. “Yeah?” Knuckles’ voice was small and timid.
Preacher squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, man. Real fuckin’ good.”
Knuckles let out a breath, then another, and then he grabbed the bottle. While Knuckles drank, Preacher pulled Joe into the hallway and lit his cigarette for him.
“Get some girls over here,” he said. “Smoke some shit, snort some shit. And you make sure you fuckin’ call me when Smokey and Jim get back.”
When Joe didn’t respond, Preacher slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Hey, you hearin’ me?”
Joe blinked several times. “Yeah, man, yeah. Get some girls over here. Call you when Smokey and Jim get back. Got it.” He continued to smoke—quick, successive drags. Sighing, Preacher turned to leave.
“You headed home?” Joe called after him, “You gonna make me go home to Sylvie tonight, too?”
“I’m goin’ home. You do whatever the fuck you gotta do.”
“Preacher! Shit! Preacher!” Shouting excitedly, Max swung his long body over the first-floor stair railing. “Debbie had the baby!”