9

FALLON Mr. Pressutti walks around the room. He swipes his fingers over the mantle above the fireplace. He looks at his fingers, which have gathered the dust. “I’m afraid your father has been rather careless,” Leone says, almost casually, as if discussing the weather. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, cleaning his fingers, looking appalled at the mantle. He then circles me, his steps deliberate, each echoing. “A failed theft is still a theft, Fallon. And in my world, we don’t take kindly to thieves. Now the question I want to know is if I am only killing one person tonight or two?” he asks, and my brows furrow. He crouches beside me. “Your father crossed the wrong man, which leaves me questioning if you knew and helped him?” he asks. I swallow down the bile that rises in my throat, and I glance at my father behind me, my hands finding his body as I use my own as a shield to protect him. Tears spring in my eyes at the thought of him killing my father. “Please,” I whisper, hating m