Page 3 of Broken Vows

"Don’t count on it." I turn and walk away.

Vincent

The warehouse on the East River always reeks of rust, mildew, and death.

Tonight, it’s worse—copper and bleach thick enough to choke on.

My shoes slap against wet concrete as I stride in.

Three bodies cool on the drain grid—former employees.

Or technically, ex-employees now.

My guys caught them skimming from our laundering ops.

I step around the spreading pool of blood. Under the halogens, the crimson gleams like oil.

My crew works fast—already bagging the limbs.

I nod to Franco, who grunts and keeps spraying acid over the pile.

The new acid eats faster than anything the Russians use. Leave it long enough, and a man disappears—bone and all.

“Don’t get it on your skin,” I say, watching it disintegrate the bodies.

Franco doesn’t look up.

He’s been with me six years.

He knows the drill.

My phone vibrates—an encrypted line. One of four.

I answer quietly, my gaze on the container yard as barges move like ghost ships downriver.

When I hang up, I glance at Franco.

"Status?"

"We’re through the messy part, boss," Franco says. He gives me a look—a little nervous, but efficient.

I prize efficiency.

It’s what separates us from bottom-feeders like the Perezzi.

Or those coked-up Irish.

"I want this place cleaner than a surgeon’s table before I leave. Eyes on all exits. If anyone so much as twitches, you call me. Understood?"

He nods, sharp.

I move toward the office at the rear of the building.

Jobs like this aren’t hard.

The paperwork’s always worse than dealing with the bodies.