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Holding the silver gun to his head, without hesitation I pull the trigger. His body falls against the hard concrete. Blood pools around his head as I put the gun in the strap beneath my silk, black dress.
I wipe my hands together, I order my brother's men to get rid of the body. Turning on my heels, I go back into the busy bar.
Taking a seat on a wooden stool, I rest my chin on my palm while my other hand taps the marble table. I order two more shots, watching as the bartender pours the clear liquid into the small glasses.
My green eyes trail around the bar, scanning over the people. One man in the far corner punches another man in the face. The man falls to the ground, I can hear his groans from my seat due to the bar going silent.
Americans.
I down one of my shots. I can't wait to get back Italy, these passed three weeks have been hell. I don't understand how my parents lived here, thank fuck they moved back to Italy.
Matteo walks up beside me, running a hand through is black, curly hair.
"We're going to head back, are you coming with?" his italian accent thick.
I wave him off, "No, I'll call an Uber."
My eyes glance over to his bloodied hands, "You might wanna get that cleaned up, no?"
He looks down to his hands and rubs them together, making the dried blood patchy.
Shakin my head at him, he grins, and leaves.
Running a hand through my wavy black hair, I watch as the bartender twirls a knife around his fingers after cutting a lemon.
"Can I see it?" I ask, opening my hand for the knife.
He raises a brow, passing me the knife. I spin the knife at a fast speed around my fingers, every turn of the knife getting close to slicing my finger. On the last spin I change the direction to upwards, catching the handle.
Passing it back to the bartender, he stares at me with wide eyes. I keep my face emotionless, shrugging my shoulders.
My Mamma and 'zio' have a bit of an obession with knives, so I learnt most of my tricks from them.
The first time I had a knife was when I was four years old, my zio, Ezra, gave it to me and my Mamma freaked out to say the least. She beat him on the side of his head, but then changed out the silver knife for a pink plastic one; that's where my obsession with guns and knives started.
A tall figure comes from behind me, his cologne coming off from his body.
"This seat taken?" his deep and husky voice says from behind me. His voice is laced with a faint accent I can't put finger on, as if he is trying to hide out his natural accent.
Turning to see him, I'm caught off guard on how attractive he is. His black hair laying messy on his head, tattoos snaking up his arms through the sleeves of his dress shirt, peaking up from the collar. Silver rings decorate his veiny hands, along with a chain around his neck.
