LUCA
The room was dead silent.
Roberto brought the gun down, but it didn't matter. He'd already made the mistake.
And I never let mistakes slide. If I did, they repeated themselves—like this one.
I moved before anyone could say a word. I reached Roberto and lifted my hand to take the gun. He saw my hand coming and tried to fight, shoving back, holding the gun tighter.
I almost slapped him, but I didn't bother. He was weak and desperate.
I barely put in any effort. One twist, a strong pull, and the gun was in my hands.
Roberto staggered. His chest rose and fell. The men at the table murmured at how easily I had disarmed him.
Weak.
I tested the weight of the gun in my palm, unimpressed. Then, without warning, I rammed it hard against Roberto's head.
The sound
