Page 147 of Dishonored

That should have been a warning for her.

She should have heard him.

Martina only shrieked at him again.

Stupid woman.

Caesar flashed the woman who stepped out behind her desk a smile even as she put her hand up to try and stop him from entering the elevator.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t—”

“Oh, they’re expecting me,” he returned easily. “No worries.”

They being the made men of the Accardo Cosa Nostra.

And they weren’t actually expecting him at all.

Cain rushed to get inside the elevator as well before the doors could close—giving his friend a fucking side-eye the whole time. “Slow down.”

“Keep up,” he countered.

“That’s fair.”

The elevator jerked as it moved up fifteen fucking floors without stopping once. Who thought it was good to have a meeting between made men in a hotel where not only did Caesar know the owner, but said owner was also very open to being paid the fuck off?

Stupid men did so.

That’s who.

Of course, it hadn’t only been the owner of the hotel who let Caesar in on this little meeting that was happening, but he confirmed it. Caesar would deal with the person who did tell him at a later date—if he felt like it.

“You could do this another way,” Cain said.

Caesar shook his head. “There is no other way.”

And even if there was, this was what he wanted to do.

“And besides, do you think Angelo’s old consigliere and underboss gathered the rest of the made men of the family here because they were going to talk about a party?” Caesar scoffed. “No, and there was a reason why you and I were not invited to this, too. While we’re waiting to get up there, let’s take a fucking bet on how long you think they would let the two of us live before someone whacked us. It’ll be fun—you go first.”

“Fuck off.”

Caesar shrugged. “Your loss.”

The elevator jerked one last time, dinged, and then the door opened to expose a long hallway. There was only one penthouse suite on the top floor, and it was way down the hall. He did a cursory check of the hallway before he stepped out of the elevator, and Cain followed behind. Caesar pulled out his gun, and checked the clip before making sure the safety was off, and it was ready to fire.

He wasn’t fucking around.

They hadn’t, after all.

At the room door, the two men stopped.

“Should we knock, or …?” Cain asked.

“Fuck knocking. I am beyond that.”

He was so beyond any and all politeness at this point.

Rearing back, Caesar let his booted—God, he missed his loafers—foot smash into the wood just below the doorknob. Wood cracked and splintered, but the door swung open with a bang. Sure enough, every made man of the Accardo organization that had not at all been expecting Caesar or Cain to show up stood from the table in a rush.