Page 28

28

RAFFAELE

“ W e captured three, killed the rest,” Vito explains as he hurries to keep pace with me through the garden. “Anyone of importance had been removed from the manor within the hour after you called, so the only people who were here were security.”

“Any casualties on our side?”

“One. Francis took a shotgun blast to the face.”

“Francis?”

“Tall guy, skinny, with the tight blond curls?” Vito mimics the style with his fingers. “Beat that guy to death with a golf club for running his daughter over a few years ago?”

“Oh, hit and run Francis. I remember. His family?—”

“Will be taken care of,” Vito interrupts quickly. “We’ve covered the funeral costs and once his wife is ready to speak to us, we’ll make sure they’re taken care of for life.”

“Good.”

It pains me that we lost one of our own. It’s always expected in this line of work, but I’ve trained my men to exceptional levels which makes it hurt a little more when we actually lose one. Part of my manor is shrouded in darkness from where the firefight took place the other night. One casualty is not bad for a surprise attack based on a gut feeling.

“The three you captured,” I say as we close in on the garage where they’re being held. “What can you tell me about them?”

“They’re Irish,” Vito says with a growl of disgust.

“Irish. Again?” The Irish attacked my brothel but went strangely quiet when I tried to confront anyone involved. I’d entertained the idea that it was just some bad luck on their part that they’d wandered into the wrong brothel, but twice? That’s more than a coincidence.

“Same clan too,” Vito says, passing me a photograph of their tattoos. “O’Brien. We’ve been letting them stew in the dark for a few days.”

“The fuck did I do to piss the Irish off?”

Vito smirks darkly. “Exist?”

“Maybe.” I pass the photo back as we reach the door to the garage where one of my guards hauls it open.

Inside, three men sit bound, gagged, and blindfolded to chairs. They show visible signs of a heavy beating, likely at Vito’s hands, and one’s head is sagging lower than the others’. Vito remains in the doorway while I walk in and unholster my gun.

I shoot the first through the skull, making the other two jump and flinch at the sound. His body falls limply to the side and then topples the chair to the floor with a loud clatter. I shoot the second in the same place. He slumps backward with his head hanging awkwardly off the chair.

The third growls behind his gag and shakes his head back and forth. I press the hot barrel of my gun to his forehead, and he tries to flinch away from the pain, but I don’t let him. The blindfold unfurls under my second hand, and I toss it aside, coming face to face with a pair of furious green eyes.

“You’re from the O’Brien clan. Funny how we keep running into one another. First you attack one of my places of work, and I’m kind enough to send a warning. Now, your filthy paws are all over my home. That’s a bold fucking move, isn’t it?”

“An act of war ,” says Vito from behind me.

“An act of war,” I repeat.

The Irishman doesn’t make a sound, merely glaring up at me with hatred in his eyes. Hatred that I’m not sure I even deserve.

I lower the gun, and the Irishman’s shoulders sag slightly. “Hold him down.”

His eyes widen as Vito and the other guard move around him and grip him tightly in their arms, holding him still on the chair. With a nod, Vito and the guard force the man to double over which puts painful strain on the bindings attaching his wrists to the chair.

“I’m not a forgiving man,” I say as I holster my weapon and pull a switchblade from my pocket. “This is my home. I could have been here. My girl could have been here. Considering you chose that night to attack, the very same night I returned to the States, well… Some might say that’s one hell of a coincidence. Or a well thought out plan.”

The man grunts and struggles briefly against his forced position, but Vito is relentless in pinning him down.

The Irishman has a tattoo on his back, a fancy hat bearing a four-leaf clover insignia with a ribbon of striped tartan over two crossed blades. The mark of Clan O’Brien.

He screams through his gag as I stab my knife into his back just to the side of his tattoo. “One of my men died. Did you know? I don’t care if you killed him or one of your Irish cronies killed him. The point is, he’s dead. You’ve taken something from me. So I’m taking something from you.”

The man screams himself hoarse as I saw the blade through the thick, muscular flesh of his back, following a rough outline of the tattoo. Blood pours like a river down his back and a coppery stink fills the air. Each time he struggles against the agony, my blade slips and my attempts at a smooth outline are hindered.

I swiftly carve along the outline of his tattoo and when the lines meet, I tilt my knife horizontally and start splitting skin from muscle. The Irishman’s screams turn from agony to terror as I skin his back, cutting his precious tattoo from his body. I’m aware of how symbolic these tattoos are for the Irish, and I’m glad it hurts.

This fucker could have hurt Adelina if I hadn’t made the snap decision to stay at a hotel that night.

Whatever the reason for the O’Briens to make a move like this, it no longer matters.

I’m going to kill them all.

Skin separates from flesh with a wet schluck sound, leaving the Irishman sobbing and trembling in his chair. It hangs like soaked leather in my hand, and I walk around to the front of him as Vito and the guard haul him upright.

He can’t hold my gaze this time.

“You come into my home. You threaten my family. You kill my people. O’Brien might not have wanted a war by trying to take me out quietly. But he’s fucking got one now.”

I shoot the last Irishman between the eyes and watch his body slump like a rock to the side. The flap of skin containing his tattoo is placed down on the nearest surface. “Send that to Hector,” I order quietly. “And I want eyes on him. I need to know exactly how he reacts.”

“On it, Boss.” The guard nods quickly, and I leave the garage, wiping the blood off my hands with a rag and with Vito by my side.

“Do you think we have a rat?” Vito asks in a low voice when we’re far away from the garage.

“Maybe. I’m not going to commit to anything like that just yet, but if Hector calls anyone, I want to know about it. Maybe he’ll call whoever told him I was back in the States.”

“About that.” Vito puts out a hand to stop me as we near the manor. “I have some news about Carlos.”

Adelina’s ex-fiancé. The main reason she hates me. “Tell me.”

“Carlos Giordana. He was related to the Giordanas we killed, but not directly. He was the nephew of the man leading the family we killed. His own family was small, two siblings who ended up dead. One of an overdose, and one was shot in a drug bust.”

“Explains why he’d move on to his extended family to keep himself relevant,” I murmur.

“Exactly. Uncle takes him in to marry him off to someone higher for security, while Carlos gets time with his family and a chance to control the drugs that killed his siblings. Probably why they were stealing from us. Dude saw an opportunity and with fresh blood adding some boldness, bit off more than they could chew.”

“And yet I don’t remember him from that night,” I say, studying Vito’s face as if he holds the answers.

“That’s not all, though.” Vito digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper, then unfurls and offers it to me. “A couple of weeks before his death, he started calling Pascal almost every night. The calls were brief, but I did some digging into Carlos’ GPS. I thought if I could find out where he was when he was making those calls, I could get an idea of how he was when he made them.”

“And?” I press, my pulse quickening in anticipation.

“He sent a bunch of cryptic texts, and Pascal told him to come meet him. He had one hell of a screaming match with Pascal in broad daylight in one of the car dealerships Pascal uses to ship his counterfeit goods.”

“Not what you’d expect from the man about to marry Adelina.”

“Exactly. I could only get the CCTV from across the street, but it was one hell of an explosive fight. And that’s not all.” Vito steps closer. “A week before that fight, Carlos had several long calls with a state official. And an email exchange that’s been deleted.”

“The fuck?” We slowly resume walking toward the house. “What the fuck was Carlos doing wrapped up with state officials? And what’s that got to do with Pascal?”

“No clue.” Vito sighs. “I’d have more, but…” He gestures to the rapid repairs occurring at the manor and the three additional bodies now in the garage.

“I want to know who it was.” Reaching the door, I pause with my hand on the wood. “Whatever was going on was enough for Carlos to get into screaming matches with Pascal. Find me that official. I want to know what he knows.”