Page 128 of Unruly

“It’s definitely a Donati thing, Cross. I will give you that.”

Dante reached for Catherine, and gave her a hug. A quick kiss to her cheek, and then Dante held out a hand for Cross to shake as well. One thanks between them all, and another word of advice for Cross to be safe, and they were gone.

It was only once Cross and Catherine were inside their Rolls-Royce that his wife finally turned to him. In her eyes, he could see the same thing he had been feeling all damn day. Catherine, like him, was just really good at hiding it.

“What?” he asked her.

“How long before the bastards are all gone?”

Cross turned the car around in the circular drive as he considered how to answer her question. “Well, a few days likely. That’s only because I want it done right.”

Catherine nodded. “All right.”

“Was that all?”

“No.”

“What else?”

Her green gaze turned on him again—all fire and ice in a blink.

“Bury them.”

Cross kept his head low as he slipped out of the skylight window. With darkness all around, and his black clothing, he doubted anyone could see him on top of the empty house, anyway. Apparently, the place had been for sale coming on two years, now. The market was shit, and the seller was asking six million for the place.

After seeing the inside the other day, he knew it wasn’t worth the price they wanted. It needed major upgrades to get it into this century, a new roof, and the chimney needed either torn out or replaced.

However, he’d made it seem like he was interested in every nook and fucking cranny inside the three-level, old Victorian when he called up the realtor. So much so, that the realtor had been so excited for a possible sale, he didn’t even realize Cross had left the window unlatched and the bottom floor window unlocked after he checked them out.

Two days after that initial meet with the realtor, and here he was. Slipped in the back window, and straight onto the roof.

Cross carefully climbed to the peak of the roof, mindful of the slipperiness. At the peak, he rested down on his stomach, and grabbed the medium sized case at his back. Setting it beside him, he opened the case up and began slowly assembling the pieces of a Mosin-Nagant. A Russian sniper rifle.

He felt it was appropriate to use, all things considered. The weapon certainly wasn’t the best of sniper rifles—fuck, it wasn’t even the best in his collection. However … appropriate.

Cross grabbed the magazine inside the case, and checked the number of bullets inside. He dumped out all but two back into the case. Even the best shooters in the world had to take a second shot sometimes, and he wouldn’t have time to take more than that after the first one.

Clicking the magazine into place, Cross set the tri-pod of the gun just before the crest of the roof’s peak. Beneath the black wool mask covering all of his face except for his mouth and eyes, he felt invisible. A quick check of the houses around the one he was currently on top of told him that most of the residents were asleep at almost midnight.

Across from him, two roads over, and a large hill upward, a single house sat on a property guarded by four men, and a six-foot high stone fence. About six hundred meters, he figured. Of course, he couldn’t get much closer than he had already been without possibly drawing attention from the Russian organization, or the man inside the house.

Vlad Sokolov, that was.

Cross’s hit.

Rick had the man’s Sovietnik hit—a consigliere type situation, as far as Cross understood the guy’s title.

A Donati Capo that Cross knew had one fucking hell of a shot due to his hunting skills had Vlad’s Obshchak to kill—an underboss, or something of the sort.

He didn’t really fucking understand Russians. At this point, he figured he didn’t need to, and wasn’t about to start learning.

However, what Cross did know was that the three men they were about to take out were the highest three in the Sokolov organization. It meant that every Russian who wielded some kind of power over the other Russians in the business were about to meet their maker.

No boss would be there to answer to in the morning. Revenge would be the last thing on the Russians’ minds when something more important needed done—actually organizing an organization.

As for Zeke?

Cross smiled to himself as he shifted the gun in front of him, and looked through the night vision scope.