Pure Vengeance

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Claire

For the second time tonight, I swallow back the bile crawling up my throat and set my eyes on my target.

Anton DeMarci.

With his thick black hair slicked away from his face and his searing blue eyes, he’s by far the most handsome man in this room. Maybe the city.

My stomach turns over again as I reach my hand into my purse, feeling for my weapon. It’s there. Nestled beneath the extra tissues I always carry and a pair of sunglasses.

“Can I help you?” A waitress steps in front of me when I get closer to the back room of the restaurant.

The Salamander is a private dinner club, but the back party room is even more private. It’s for the family members of the DeMarci family only, and my untamed auburn hair, fair skin sprinkled with freckles highlighted by the summer sun tells this woman I am not one of them.

“I was just making my way to the restroom. It’s back here, right?” I slip my hand out of my purse and point at the hallway to my left.

Her eyes narrow briefly, and I wonder if my voice trembles as much as my stomach.

I’m no good at lying.

I’m worse at planning this hunt.

But, for Michael, my brother, I’m learning fast how to do both.

He deserves it.

To have his death avenged.

He was too young to be killed. And too innocent.

Anton DeMarci doesn’t know the first thing about innocence.

“Oh, yeah, right down that hallway.” She steps around me and continues her way through the restaurant.

Feeling her eyes on me, I turn toward the restrooms and weave through the tables in that direction.

The party room is closed off from the rest of room with dark wooden paneled walls and frosted windows at the top. Anton stands just outside the room talking with two other men. He’s scowling and jabbing his finger at one of them.

As I make my way past them, his eyes swing my direction, and he catches me in his tracker beam like gaze. My breath catches. A shiver runs down my back, and I’m certain he knows why I’m here.

One of the men start talking, and he looks back at them.

Air whooshes back into my lungs, and I hurry into the shelter of the restroom.

Hot tears well in eyes once I’m alone in a stall. I wipe them away, gritting my teeth.

I can’t be emotional about this.

Stick to the plan.

It’s seven fifty-six. He always leaves by eight thirty. I just need to keep an eye on him for a little while longer before I slip out to my hiding spot in the parking lot.

His driver keeps his black Mercedes parked in the lot on the side of the restaurant. He’ll stay parked by the side entrance until Anton steps out, then he’ll pull up to the stairs.

I go over the plan again in my mind, picturing each step, each moment of what’s going to happen.

Images of my younger brother float into the mix and my fingers curl into my palms.

He was barely twenty-three when he was killed. Our parents died when I was a freshman in college. It’s been just Michael and me for the last seven years.

And now it’s just me.

Because of Anton DeMarci.

I roll my shoulders back and force in a deep breath. Again, I feel for the gun in my purse, reassuring myself I haven’t lost it.

It’s an old pistol my father had buried in his closet. It works fine, and I’ve been practicing with it. I’m a good shot.

One more steadying breath and I head back into the restaurant. I try to keep my eyes from wandering to the back room, but I can’t help but turn when Anton’s deep voice strikes me.

“Send over the contracts.” He’s on the phone, one hand pressed against his other ear to keep the noise of the restaurant from distracting him. “I’m leaving here in five minutes. I’ll call you later when I’ve had a chance to look them over.”

Five minutes?

I hurry back to my table and try to wave down a waitress for my check. I should have more time.

But the restaurant is slammed, and my waitress is elbow deep in a larger party a few tables away, taking another drink order.

Frantically, I rustle through my purse, grabbing enough bills to cover my untouched pork loin and two glasses of merlot. Adding more for a generous tip, I toss them all down on the table and hurry out of the restaurant.

To keep from looking too out of place, I had chosen a black dress with a flowing skirt. Expecting to do some running tonight, I swapped the heels I usually wear with this outfit for a pair of black ballet flats.

After a quick dance around an old couple walking into the restaurant as I try to get out, I hurry down the front steps and jog to the side lot.

His car is already fired up, waiting for him.

I barely manage to get behind the thick bushes along the exterior of the building before the headlights flicker on.

Shit.

Shoving my hand into my purse, I fumble around for the pistol. The purse falls from my shoulder and hits the ground.

Fuck!

The side door opens.

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” His voice carries to where I am and my blood runs cold.

Quickly, I snatch up the pistol and pull back the hammer.

His phone rings again, and he stops on the top step to answer.

His lips are moving, but all I can hear is my heart slamming into my eardrums.

I’m going to kill him.

My stomach rolls again.

For Michael.

I grip the pistol the way my father showed me when I was younger.

This man is a criminal.

An animal.

He’s a killer.

He deserves to die.

I raise the pistol, aiming for his head.

One bullet should do it if my shot is good.

Inching up to the edge of the bush, a branch breaks. It’s enough to draw his attention.

He turns toward me.

I take in a deep breath.

Blow out.

And pull the trigger.