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“And we’re sure it was the same enemy who’s been sending the anonymous threats?” I growled. That was going to make it harder to track down the enemy—harder, but not impossible. They crossed a line, taking out one of our own, plus his crew.

“That’s Atlas’s department,” Zephyr clipped out. “I was sent to clean up the mess.”

“Who found them?” I scanned the docks.

“Some of our own.”

Good. That was a small blessing in the midst of this tragedy. The villagers would gossip amongst themselves, but so long as no outsider discovered the hit, we were safe from the law investigating.

“Then we need to move quickly.” I rolled up my sleeves. “Dorothea will find out about her son, and I don’t want her seeing the carnage.

Zephyr’s jaw tightened as he glanced back at my cousin, who had fallen to his knees beside one of the tarps, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. The tarp was pulled down, and while I couldn’t make out Iakovos’s face, I felt the wave of grief wash over me all the same.

I cursed under my breath. “Get him out of here. I’ll help with the bodies.”

Zephyr nodded and strode toward Iosif, placing a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder. There was a brief struggle—Iosif trying to shake him off, refusing to leave—but Zephyr’s quiet words eventually penetrated his anguish. If we were monsters, Zephyr was a devil of the worst kind. But even this force of hell had a soft side. I watched as he guided Iosif to the dock, the lad pulling himself together and walking away with steady steps.

“What did you say to him?” I asked when the enforcer retraced his steps.

The devil grunted. “He’s the man of the house now. I told him to find his mother and be strong for her.”

Nodding, I moved to the bodies. Since the entrance wound was in the back, the front was a mottled mess of bone and flesh. There was no identifying this face as my cousin, the man who’d swum and fished with me every day when I first came to America. It was the brawny build, and the badly done starfish tattoo on his right bicep that confirmed the worst. Taking the edge of the tarp, I covered Iakovos once more.

“We’ll bury the crew in the church yard, but Iakovos is one of the Twelve,” I said to Zephyr who’d come up behind me. “We burn him at midnight.”

“Do you want to take him to the Shark’s Fin or shall I?” Zephyr lit a cigarette.

“You. I’ll take the boat out and make preparations to sink her. Follow with another when you’re done.” I moved to the helm and examined the mechanisms. Nothing seemed broken. There wasn’t a single fastening out of place. Unease shifted through me. I leaned over the edge, checking the water levels.

Just as I thought.

“How did this rig float to shore?” I demanded. “The tide’s against her.”

Zephyr paused, the garish load he drug halfway to the ship’s side. “Don’t know.”

Frustration knotted in my chest. The devil wasn’t a sailor. “Who called you?”

“Old man Leandros.”

I looked over the docks, spying the wizened fisherman with his sons and their shrimp boat. They were going to have some explaining to do. Moving to the side of the vessel, I vaulted therail and landed on the dock. Zephyr tugged his load off the ramp at the same moment.

“What are you doing?” he snapped.

“Going to have a chat about the day’s catch.”

“Markos,” he warned. “They’re villagers. Don’t involve them in this tragedy. It’s our fight.”

I slapped Zephyr’s shoulder as I passed. “They’re already involved.”

Zephyr could tattle to his brother, and I wouldn’t care. Atlas would side with me that these villagers needed to be questioned. These men—like every other villager—knew who we were. The inhabitants of this strip of land offered us their allegiance and silence, aid when we required it and a hearth to call our own should we want it. And in return, the humble villagers didn’t need to rely on their work for an abundant livelihood. Our illicit gains made them wealthy beyond measure. We protected them until our dying breath; and they would rather drown than speak the truth about their benefactors.

Going to the shrimp boat, I barked at the man. “Leandros!”

The old man turned, his weathered face creasing into a grimace when he saw me. His sons stiffened, shoulders squaring as I approached. The eldest—Nikos, if I remembered correctly—stepped forward, putting himself between me and his father.

“We don’t want trouble, Markos,” Nikos said, voice low.

I smiled, the expression more teeth than warmth. “Then be honest with me. Who found the boat?”