I find Elio Pisano in the far bedroom. He’s sprawled in the middle of the four-poster bed, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs—snoring. Reaching into the pocket of my tactical vest, I pull out a small box that holds a syringe and approach the bed.
For a few moments I just watch Rocco’s father, enjoying the thrill of what will come, then I cover his mouth with my palm and bury the needle into his neck. Elio’s eyes snap open, and I revel in the panic I see in them. His hand shoots out, grabbing my forearm, only to fall back down onto his chest. Limp, like the rest of his body.
I remove my hand from his mouth and watch his bulging eyes as they stare at the empty hypodermic needle in my other hand.
“It’s a convenient little cocktail,” I say as I put the hypodermic back into its box. “Mi
