Page 52

VICTOR

“ P hil! If it’s such a goddamn emergency,” I hollered as I headed down the basement steps, “you could at least pick up the phone.”

Silence.

“Phil?”

I smelled him before I saw him. That ripe, unmistakable stink. I tasted the copper in the back of my throat. Blood. A lot of it.

I drew my revolver, thumbed back the hammer, and took another tentative step down.

“Phil?” I didn’t expect an answer.

I took the remaining steps carefully, each one echoing in the oppressive silence. The flickering fluorescent light overhead stuttered, throwing jagged shadows against the concrete floor.

Phil dangled from a meat hook in the ceiling.

The chain groaned. His flesh was flayed in strips, raw and glistening.

His massive frame swayed gently, like a grotesque pinata.

What was left of him looked more like a side of beef than a man.

Except for his face. That part they left untouched, his dead eyes locked straight ahead.

A slick red pool stretched out beneath him, the blood soaking into the cracks in the concrete like veins in stone.

“Jesus Christ.”

I swept the room with my revolver, each shadow and corner getting its due attention. When I was sure I was alone, I lowered my weapon and turned back to Phil.

“Who the hell did you piss off?” I muttered.

Blood and mildew—two smells that never belonged together. But here they were, clinging to my sinuses like cheap cologne. I wiped at my nose with the back of my hand and took a slow breath through my mouth. The atmosphere was soupy. Breathing felt like sucking air through a wet rag.

I moved closer to Phil’s body, careful to keep my shoes out of the blood.

It glistened under the flickering light, still wet, still warm.

Recent. Too recent. I followed the cuts, the places where his skin used to be.

Stripped clean, down to the bone in some places, hanging like tattered rags.

The precision was surgical. This wasn’t some back-alley hack job.

This was the work of a pro. A pro with a message.

I fought the urge to pull Phil down. There was nothing I could do for him now, and touching the body would only leave evidence. Not that the cops would bother—they stayed well clear of my affairs—but it was good practice to be careful.

I scanned the room again, this time looking for something more specific—a note, an object, some kind of calling card.

Pros liked to leave their mark, a signature to let the right people know who wielded the knife.

But there was nothing. Just Phil’s papers and ledger strewn about the desk and the dripping silence of this makeshift slaughterhouse.

My gut tightened. Whoever did this wanted me off balance. They wanted me looking over my shoulder, second-guessing my next move. And damn if it wasn’t working.

Phil swore he had Kowalski under control. So what the hell happened? Did he screw it up that bad, or did Kowalski bring in fresh blood—someone with this kind of skill?

“Damn it, Phil. You were smarter than this.”

Kowalski was a hothead and a loudmouth, but he’d never had the stones to come at me outright. If he was making moves like this now, we were in deeper trouble than I thought. Or maybe Phil got to him first and this was retribution. Either way, I was running out of time to figure it out.

My gut burned. It wasn’t just the sight of Phil—or what was left of him. It was the audacity. The goddamn nerve to walk into my house and do this.

Phil wasn’t just an employee. He was family. The kind of loyalty he gave me was rare, and now it was gone for good. I curled my fists, my nails biting into my palms, then forced myself to turn away.

A floorboard groaned at the top of the stairs.

I spun, revolver up, finger tight on the trigger. A shadow stretched down the stairwell, growing with each step.

“Boss, it’s me!” The voice floated down, hushed but urgent. “Christ, don’t shoot!”

I didn’t lower the gun. “Gino?”

He stepped into the dim light, hands up, face pale. “I was worried when you didn’t come back to the car.” His gaze snapped to Phil, and the color drained from his face like someone had pulled the plug.

I motioned him down with a flick of the barrel. He hesitated, then took each step like it might be his last. I kept the gun trained on him the whole way. Trust wasn’t something I handed out anymore—not even to my own men.

“Holy mother of?—”

“Save it,” I cut him off. “Won’t change a damn thing.”

He swallowed hard. His voice wavered. “Who…who did this?”

I holstered my weapon—not out of relief, just resignation. I didn’t answer him. “Gino, get the car ready.”

I crossed to the desk and picked up the telephone. The clicks of the rotary grated on my frayed nerves.

Gino stayed put, eyes fixed on Phil. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. I shot him a glare. He flinched, then hurried up the stairs. I liked that he was scared. Fear made men predictable. It kept them careful. Kept them breathing.

The line crackled to life. “Yeah?”

“It’s Victor. Get a crew to Phil’s butcher shop. Fast. Some meat got left hanging, and it’s starting to stink.”

A pause. “Got it, Boss.”

I hung up and wiped down the receiver with a rag from the desk. I scanned the room one last time. The fluorescent light washed everything in a sickly green, like an old silver plate photograph gone bad.

I flipped through the ledger. Every deal, every payoff, every debt—Phil kept it all neat as a banker. Coded, sure, but it was all there. Everything else in this basement could burn. But not this.

I shoved the ledger and papers inside my coat, their uncomfortable bulk pressing against my ribs. I started up the stairs, each step heavier than the last—like dragging myself out of a grave. Phil’s grave.

Then it hit me.

Barbara.

If someone could get to Phil, they could get to her. To Frankie. My gut twisted. I ran through a dozen scenarios, each blacker than the last. They were more vulnerable than any of us, more exposed. And she was the one person I couldn’t afford to lose.

A jolt of fear punched me square in the chest, hard and mean. Not the slow-burn kind I could manage—this was raw, primal, out of control. I bolted up the stairs into the shop where Gino hovered near the door, wringing his hands like a schoolboy caught cheating.

“Boss—”

“Why the hell aren’t you in the car?” I grabbed his collar and hauled him outside, shoving him toward the curb. “We need to go. Now!”

Gino scrambled, flinging the door open for me before diving behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, spitting smoke and fury. For half a second, I almost believed we’d make it.

“Where to, Boss?” Gino asked, voice still shaking.

“Barbara’s. And step on it.”

The car lurched forward, tires squealing against concrete. Los Angeles streaked past in a smear of neon and asphalt, the night burning bright and cold around us. Gino tore through traffic like a man with nothing to lose. Horns blared and voices cursed, the city’s hum thick with heat and anger.

Gino took a sharp left, slamming me into the door. I gritted my teeth and shot him a look that should’ve killed, but I kept my mouth shut. He looked like a haunted man, and maybe he was. Fear spreads like an infection.

Phil should’ve seen this coming. Hell, I should’ve seen it. We were slipping. We got soft. No— I got soft.

My thoughts raced ahead of us, already at Barbara’s doorstep. Would they be waiting for me? Using her and Frankie as bait? How had it all gone to hell so fast?

God, if you’re up there—and if you give a damn—let me get to her in time. Don’t take her from me. Please…