phin

er when the staccato roar of Tommy

hrough the downpour, I saw the black Duesenberg Model J-Damien's car-shattered by bullets, crashed against a brick wall. Men

n Fal

he hands of some nameless Chicago thugs. Damien Falcone was *mine* to destroy. I need

y shoulder. He was dangerously heavy, but the adrenaline of pure hatred fueled me. I dragged him through the labyrinth of

suit jacket. The bullet had grazed his ribs, but that wasn't what terrified me. His skin was radiating a blistering heat, his chest heaving wit

, turning toward the rus

, a hand clamped around my

I crashed onto the mattress, and in a fraction of a second, his heav

ssed, thrashing a

red open, but they were unfocused, glazed with delirium. He wasn't seei

was a raw, broken r

reath caught

e crook of my neck, his feverish breath scalding my

n into a violent tailspin. This wasn't a hallucination of the present. This was an apology from the past-f

ghting the sudden, treacherous

e, his apologies bleeding into incoherent, agonized whispers unt

y built wall of hatred had just sustained a massive crack. I c

our to track down an underground pharmacist I remembered from my past

im, narrow hallway outside the s

nto the flickering light o

er*, losing his *Underboss* was the ultimate disgrace. His cold eyes dropped to the medical box

snarled, his voice vibra

keeping my voice steady as I stepped in front

nged forward, a battering

cluster on his forearm, attempting to deflect his grab. A flash of genuine s

t enough to stop a

y the collar of my coat and hurled me aside. My back slammed brut

he flimsy wooden door dead center. The lock splintered with a deafening crac