Page 24

ELEVEN

L eone

The road ahead glistens with recent rain, reflecting the city lights like scattered jewels on black velvet. Beautiful, if you’re into that poetic shit. I’m not. Not tonight. Tonight is about business, the kind that leaves bodies behind when things go wrong.

My phone buzzes against the dash, I glance at the screen, and my jaw tightens. Mikhail. Milo turns down the road leading to the docks as I pick it up.

“What?” I answer, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Leone.” His voice slithers through the speaker, that measured Russian accent making each word sound like he is mocking me.

I can almost see him, sitting in his plush office, hair perfectly combed, those dead blue eyes staring at nothing while he contemplates my fate. The traffic light ahead turns red, and Milo brakes, glancing at me.

“Your brother will be picking up the shipment tonight,” Mikhail continues.

My blood turns to ice. “Dante?”

“Thought you’d like a family reunion.” He laughs. “You will meet him at arranged location by the docks. My men will accompany him.”

The light turns green. Milo doesn’t move immediately. Cars behind us honk. Milo presses the gas.

“Remember our arrangement. Your cooperation for your wife’s life. No funny business, I have eyes everywhere. Handle the shipment, my men will report back to me, just remember, I’m watching, Leone. I’m never far.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” I say flatly.

“Good. Then we understand each other.” The line goes dead.

The docks emerge from the night, ships reaching toward the sky.

I cut my headlights as I approach the meeting point, an abandoned warehouse near the easternmost pier.

My crew is already in position, hidden among shipping containers and shadows.

They know the drill. Wait for my signal. Be ready for anything.

I step out of the car, the night air carrying the smell of salt water and rusted metal.

The wind whips at my jacket, and I scan the area, cataloging every exit.

The water slaps against the concrete barriers while we wait.

When Milo nudges me, I wander closer, seeing Reyes’s men creeping along the edges below toward the ship, which is being unloaded with a crane.

His men are like rats, good at scurrying in the dark, yet I don’t trust rats. Not even when they’re supposedly on my side of the sewer. “Keep an eye on them,” I mutter to Milo, my gaze fixed on the shadowy figures near the water.

The crane groans, a metallic screech that cuts through the wash of the waves. A large container, dark and featureless, swings through the air, then settles onto a waiting flatbed truck with a dull thud. Show time.

Reyes’s men rush toward the flatbed, pausing momentarily when they don’t see anyone rushing toward them.

The crane operator releases the container swinging the arm wide while I watch Reyes nervously peer around, expecting more guards as he climbs up the truck steps and rips open the door where he won’t have found anyone.

It’s then I see Santos’s men move on the deck of the ship while my men come out from between the shipping containers and from deck.

Gunfire breaks out, at least putting on a show since we know Mikhail would be watching as my men and Santos’s men start taking out Reyes’s crew. It’s over in a matter of minutes.

The smell of gunpowder, sharp and acrid, cuts through the salt air. My men are efficient, clinical. Santos’s crew are a bit more theatrical; still, they get the job done. Bodies litter the ground around the flatbed, a show of violence designed for distant eyes. Mikhail’s eyes.

“Clear,” Milo says, his voice a low rumble beside me as he gets word on his radio. No casualties on our side, just as planned.

My men fan out, securing the perimeter, a few of them dragging Reyes’s guys—the ones still breathing, anyway—out of sight. Can’t have loose ends, even in a puppet show.

We drive down to the dock, and I climb out and walk toward the flatbed, my shoes crunching on loose gravel.

Santos gives me a curt nod from the deck of the ship before his men melt back into the shadows as silently as they appeared.

I nod to one of my men, and he pries open the heavy doors with a crowbar.

The stench that hits me isn’t drugs or weapons.

It’s… meat. Crates upon crates of rotting meat.

My lips curl. That prick, Santos must be pissing his pants laughing.

A few of my men gag at the stench and I shake my head climbing up and moving to the crates.

I pry one of the lids off; opening it you would think it’s just meat and ice.

I know better, removing the false top. I open it to find kilos of what looks like cocaine, yet I know this product is mine and only the first layer on each is poorly cut crap knowing where it is going.

Stepping out, I nod for my men to retrieve the four crates inside and bring them out just as headlights cut through the darkness.

Two black SUVs roll to a stop a respectful distance away.

Mikhail’s hounds. And my brother. Fuck. The doors open and four of Mikhail’s gorillas spill out, bulky shadows in expensive suits, their eyes sweeping the area like goddamn searchlights.

Then Dante steps out of the lead vehicle.

Dante. Emerging from the middle vehicle like he’s stepping onto a red carpet.

He’s flanked by six of Mikhail’s men, their bulk making my brother look even slimmer in comparison.

His dark hair is slicked back, and even from here, I can see the scar on his face—the one I gave him three years ago when he tried to muscle in on my casino operation.

My hand itches for my gun. One bullet. That’s all it would take to end years of betrayal and sabotage. One bullet to finish what our father was too weak to do.

Dante spots me and smirks.

I walk forward, maintaining a casual pace that belies the hatred burning in my gut. My crew melts further into the shadows, ready.

“Brother,” Dante calls out, spreading his arms like we’re at some family reunion. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Cut the shit, Dante.” I stop ten feet away from him, close enough to see the malice in his eyes. “What’s your game?”

He chuckles, reaching into his jacket. Mikhail’s men don’t react, which tells me they know what’s coming. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it with deliberate slowness. “No game. Just business. Mikhail seems to think I’m more… reliable these days.”

“Reliable?” I bark out a laugh. “You couldn’t reliably tie your own shoes without fucking it up.”

His eyes narrow. “Go ahead, Leone. Kill me right now.” He takes a drag, blows smoke in my direction. “But if I don’t check in within the hour, Fallon’s dead.”

My hands curl into fists. “What did Mikhail promise you?”

Dante takes another long drag, savoring the moment. Savoring my pain.” The city.” He says it simply, like announcing he’s won a hand of poker. “Your territory. Your business. Everything our father gave to you instead of me.”

I can’t help it. The laughter bubbles up from deep in my chest, raw and genuine. I throw my head back, letting it echo across the empty docks. When I look at Dante again, his smirk has faltered.

“You’re a fool,” I tell him, wiping at the corner of my eye. “He’s going to kill you, and you’ve walked right into his trap.”

“No, brother. You’ve got it all wrong.” He flicks his cigarette, and the ember arcs through the darkness before disappearing.

“This isn’t about territory or money. It’s about revenge—for Lydia and I have given him that.

” He watches my face, hungry for pain, for the crack in my armor that mentions of my dead wife usually bring.

Instead, I laugh louder, the sound scraping raw from my throat, genuine amusement mixed with the darkest kind of understanding.

“Lydia?” I wipe a tear from my eye, still chuckling. “Jesus Christ, you’re even dumber than I thought.”

Confusion flickers across his face. Good. The seed of doubt grows.

“You think Mikhail gives a shit about his dead sister?” I step closer, lowering my voice so only Dante can hear. “You think the Russian who’s been systematically taking over every smuggling route in three states suddenly developed a conscience? A sense of justice?”

Dante’s jaw tightens. Behind him, Mikhail’s men shift their weight, hands hovering near concealed weapons.

“You know what’s funny?” I continue, circling Dante. “Mikhail’s using the oldest trick in the book. He found your weakness—your pathetic jealousy—and he’s playing you without even trying.”

Before he can answer, the rumble of engines draws our attention. Three more black vehicles approach from the east. More of Mikhail’s men. I signal to my crew, and they take defensive positions around our trucks, weapons ready.

There’s no second firefight. The vehicles stop thirty yards away. Ten men emerge, including Mikhail’s second-in-command, a bull-necked Ukrainian named Petrov. They approach with weapons lowered.

“Leone Presutti,” Petrov calls out, his accent thicker than Mikhail’s. “We come to inspect the shipment. Then we go.”

I nod to my men to let them approach, and to know to keep their weapons ready. “Inspect away. And make it quick.”

Petrov and his men walk to our trucks. They open several at random, checking the contents. One man cuts open a kilo brick, tests the powder with equipment they’ve brought. After five tense minutes, Petrov nods.

“Shipment is good.” He glances at Dante. “Problem?”

I shrug. “Family dispute.”

Petrov almost smiles. Almost. “Mikhail says thank you for smooth transaction.”

“Where’s Fallon?” I demand, not bothering with pretense anymore.

Petrov doesn’t answer, he hands me a radio, and he and his men return to their vehicles and drive away, leaving us with the cocaine, the Russians who came with my brother.

I look at the radio. “We need to talk, Mikhail.”

The radio crackles, and then his voice slides through the static. “Leone. I trust everything went well?”