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That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard. Talk about underestimating me. This man had a death wish and today he’ll get his way.

“And Greg told you no.” I know my men.

He nods, and can’t look at me. “He said you’d bury him for it, that he’s worked for you too long and wouldn’t do such a thing. He said he’d rather owe me. He got up to leave. Of course I couldn’t let him walk out like that.” He swallows. “It was a spur of the moment thing. Bought him drinks until he passed out. I took the key off his ring and called a number belonging to whoever’s got Ferro’s by the balls. I don’t know who that is! The man who came to collect took the key and took care of Greg and that is all I know. I never saw him again. I never got a name. I swear on my children, I never knew who was paying.”

I believe that part. He has nothing left to bargain with, and he knows it. I also knew Matteo Ferro had no inkling of the break-in pretty early on. Which means the man responsible is still out there, and this room full of dead men isn’t the end of it after all.

I pick up his card. The last one.

His photograph. His birthday. Tonight’s date.

And where the cause of death goes, a blank line.

His eyes catch on the empty line. Every other card had a cause printed on it, and his has nothing. He thinks a blank means I haven’t decided, that I can still be persuaded to let him go. He gets off the floor and faces me.

“Why’s mine empty?” he asks.

“Because nobody printed a card for Greg.” I turn the card so he can see the empty line. “When he came back to me, There was one line in his paperwork that wasn’t filled in. You were there. So tell me how Greg died, and that’s what goes on yours.”

His mouth works, and no sound comes out. Then his legs go, and he sits down hard on the carpet.

“He bled,” he whispers. “The man cut him while he was out for the count and he bled. It was quick. I swear to you it was quick.”

“I did his body, Patrick.” I crouch down to him. “It’s never easy or quick when it’s one of your own.”

I open my kit on the carpet and lift out the trocar, the long steel tube I use to drain a body before a viewing. Sharp at one end, a hose fitting at the other. I turn it so the point catches the light. “This is the last thing I used on Greg. It goes in the belly and draws out everything that would make a viewing unpleasant. You’re early for it. My usual clients don’t feel the angle.”

He screams before it touches him. Gives me his kids’ names now, tells me they’re too young to be without a father. As if he cares. This man has spent half his fortune on whores and mistresses.

I push him flat. I set two fingers just above his navel, find the give in the muscle I’ve found on ten thousand people who felt nothing, and push the point through.

He comes up off the carpet. I drop a knee onto his chest and hold the tube where it is. The first inches are the loud part. Then I draw it halfway back and send it in again on a new line, up under the ribs. As he brings the ceiling down with his fucking screaming, I work it slow. One angle, then another. No hurry, because that would cause tearing, in turn leaving a mess I’ll be scrubbing out of this carpet till dawn.

Somewhere in it the words stop. His hands come up and take hold of my forearm. Not pulling anymore, just holding on.

Widows hold my arm like this at viewings, the first time they see the casket. I’ve stood still for it a thousand times and waited for them to be ready to let go. I don’t shake him off. I keep my knee where it is and wait, and somewhere in the waiting, whatever Bruno lit in me drains out and leaves nothing behind.

It goes on for a long time. Longer than the other three stacked together. I keep my knee on his chest and my thumb on the tap as I wait him out.

At the end he lets go all at once and goes soft under me. He told me how Greg died, and I gave him the same. When I stand, there’s more of him on me than on the carpet. I can still taste Bruno.

Matteo Ferro lies in his luxury casket, now surrounded by four men who came to bury their boss. I fill in Patrick’s card last, by hand. Exsanguination. Same as Greg.

A year ago I could have made a phone call and stayed downstairs with my quiet dead while other men did this. I stopped being able to hand it off around the time she left, or maybe before that, on a garage floor with Charles Bellamy, the first man in years I killed with my own hands. Something opened up in me that night and never closed. There’s no distance left between me and any of it now.

Not one of my men or my brother says a word, because they know tonight was different from other times.

I take a minute. Let my breathing settle. Straighten the front of my shirt, filthy as it is, out of habit. When I trust my voice, I turn to the room and bring my hands together. I planned every second of tonight. I won’t leave the last one to chance.

“Thank you all for coming,” I say. “That concludes the service.”

***

We’re most of the way through cleaning up and the sun is rising when Rafe stops beside me with his coat already on. Tomek has replaced the carpet—we were prepared for this and he is pretty handy. A priceless skill in this day and age.

“There’s a thing you’ll want to know,” he says.

“Out with it. I’ve had a rough night.”