Page 78 of Crescendo (Beautiful Monsters #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Dante

Mack may be an asshole, but he keeps good men in his pocket.

They don’t make a damn sound as they spread out beside me across the roof of a warehouse overlooking the one containing Stacatto’s women.

It’s back too far to launch an assault from, but it gives us the best vantage point to make a plan.

Though tucked behind the docks on the city’s Lower East side, the first enclave is as shitty a place as it is secure for a king to stash his merchandise.

Rats scurry out in the open, and the stench blowing off the bay makes the air reek.

In the distance, I can hear the ships bellowing as they enter and leave the harbor, just like the girl’s maid claimed.

That being said, most people wouldn’t have their trash stored here—let alone women worth a few grand a head.

Then again, Stacatto did seem to get creative when designing his prisons.

According to the addresses the girl stole, there are nine other safe houses, positioned relatively close, all along the waterfront.

While the area seems unguarded at first, any man with fucking eyes in his head could catch the telltale signs of professionals patrolling in unmarked vans.

Mack was right. Taking on even one of them alone would be pure suicide. It’s a good fucking thing I have a plan B.

“Give me your cell phone,” I tell the man crouched closest to me, and he obeys without question, slapping a silver phone onto my outstretched palm.

When I call 911, a tired voice answers. “What’s your emergency?”

“Send a car around the edge of the Forrester docks,” I say and hang up without waiting for a response. Then I dial a different number, but the person who picks up on the other end is a bit warier than the operator.

“Either this is Vialle or the bastard gave my number to a telemarketer, in which case...I suggest you lose it.”

“You have ten minutes to catch the fireworks show, Detective,” I tell him. “Don’t be late.”

I can fucking hear the man scowl.

“Where?”

I give him the address. “Now, here comes the fun part,” I add.

“If you don’t want to get your hands dirty yourself, then pick a man—someone you trust with your life, Detective.

If you can’t think of anyone, then we’re both shit out of luck.

” I wait, but Van Hallen says nothing. I take that as a good sign; the bastard is listening.

“Whoever he is, tell him to go to the chief directly—no subordinates. A trusted informant has just warned him of a group of women being held against their will. A girl. Calls herself Danny. Suggest that he send out a patrol.”

Van Hallen exhales, and I sense him shift the receiver against his ear. “Pardon me, Vialle, but I thought that’s what I was doing by sending my men there in the first place?”

I chuckle. “Oh, Detective. You’ll just be catching the show. The real fireworks will come when your chief tips off Stacatto.”

I hang up, and then I wait. Exactly ten minutes later, on the dot, a crew of men burst from the enclave. In their wake scurry at least ten women the men herd with guns into a nearby van.

“Bingo.”

I shift out of a crouch and rise to my feet, drawing the pistol in my pocket while the men wait for my signal. Never one to disappoint, it comes in the form of a pre-written text message that is delivered the moment I hit send.

“It’s showtime.”

The movies like to make the battles in a so-called “gang war” seem violent. Messy. Men shoot each other to death at point-blank range, right there in front of terrified pedestrians. There is no finesse. No stealth involved. Just gunfire and blood.

In reality—like in any true war—the fighting is done mostly from the shadows. Each side moves their men around the board like the pieces in a game of chess. The first fucker to outmaneuver the other wins checkmate. As for the loser...

Most of the games I’ve ever played employed a “take no prisoners” approach.

“Get into position,” I tell the others before leading the way myself.

A rickety fire escape is the only way off the roof, and it opens onto an alley merely a few yards shy of the enclave entrance.

Curses muttered in Russian and Italian echo off the brick walls as Stacatto’s men try to get the van loaded.

Once again, Mack’s men manage to impress as they follow me in silence around the block to where Arno’s men are waiting in their own van.

Once they see me, they jump out, their weapons already drawn.

If Dino were alive, he’d flash a rare smile—hell, the fucker might have even shown teeth.

He’d place bets on which man could draw the most blood just to “make things interesting.” This current matchup would have had him salivating.

Which men would be more lethal? Arno’s men still hunger for revenge, but Mack’s are just eager for a good fucking time.

It makes for an interesting batch when we circle around to confront Stacatto’s men before they can drive off.

Cats and dogs. Mutts and purebred bulldogs born and raised in the pit.

Professional or not, Stacatto’s pricks don’t even know what’s hitting them when the first round of bullets fly.

I let Arno’s men take the lead while I head for the van.

The driver already has a cell phone to his ear, shouting something in Italian—but he’s brutally interrupted when a bullet flies through the windshield and strikes him right between the eyes.

“Clear this place out,” I hiss to the man standing beside me, his pistol drawn. “Only the girls leave alive.”

“Got it.”

By the time we finally reach the van, another thug is dispatched with a bullet to the chest, and the only figures we find inside the vehicle itself are the women, curled up on the seats.

“One down,” I hear myself say. “Nine more to go.”