Page 98 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

I drag my gaze over him, slow and scathing. “We weren’t anything real, Roman. Just quick fucks in a bulletproof car.”

His jaw flexes, but I don’t stop.

“You were pissed my da put an end to it before you had the chance to get bored.And now you’re using your dead brother to justify dragging me into your psychodrama. That’s not revenge. That’s pathetic.”

I lean forward, letting my smile cut like glass.

“You want to hurt me? Get in line because I’m on the Red Tribunal’s hit list and after today, the Viacavas too. I’m already dead.”

30

KINGSTON

The warehouse district where I tracked Livvie’s location is a fucking wasteland. Rusted-out shells of buildings that look like graveyards for the dead industry.

It’s a perfect place to make someone disappear.

And a perfect place for Roman to make his last mistake.

The red flashing dot on my phone hasn't moved in twenty minutes. That either means Livvie's unconscious or they have her tied down tight enough that she can’t move.

Both options make me want to put bullets into skulls until none of those fuckers are left breathing.

Reign kills the engine three blocks out. Bronx's SUV slides in behind us. We creep between two gutted factories, staying in the shadows.

"That one." I stop short and point to the dilapidated brick warehouse at the end of the block. The windows are either boarded up or shattered and jagged. "The tracker's pinging from inside."

Bronx adjusts his scope, scanning the perimeter. "Two assholes outside. Smoking, talking. Not paying attention."

"Good. That means they're not expecting company."

"How many are inside? Do we know?" Reign asks, checking the magazine of his gun.

"I don't give a shit. However many there are, it's too many." I shoulder my AR-15, the weight comforting because I know exactly what it’s gonna do for me and Livvie. "Roman dies slow. Everyone else goes fast."

We crouch low to the ground and in unison, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before, we stealthily move across the cracked asphalt. And we have. Different warehouse, different target, same play. The only thing that's changed is what's at stake.

My wife. The woman I walked away from like a fucking asshole.

The guards outside are worthless. One's scrolling through his phone, chuckling at some video. The other's leaning against a concrete pillar, cigarette hanging from his mouth like he's posing for a magazine shoot.

Using a silencer, Bronx plugs a round through the first guy's skull. His phone clatters to the ground, the sound of whatever bullshit video he was watching on loop. The second guard jumps away from the wall and turns just in time to catch Reign's knife across his throat.

He drops to the ground, gurgling, trying to hold his throat together with his hands.

I fire a glare at him as his eyes go glassy and vacant.

If the rest of Roman’s crew is as oblivious, this rescue should be quick.

We drag the bodies around a nearby dumpster, thestench of rotting garbage making bile shoot up the back of my throat. I pull a pair of bolt cutters from my duffel bag when we approach the padlocked door. The metal is rusty and cuts easily.

The heavy metal door screams when it opens. Rust and age. We freeze. I hold up my hands, silently telling my brothers to stay behind me.

But nothing happens. Nobody comes running. No shots are fired.

I inch forward, my finger on the trigger of my AR. I scan the massive space, walking around the old, broken-down machinery, the dank smell making my throat tighten. Everything's covered in rust and dust, the air heavy with foreboding.

But underneath the decay, I catch something else. Something that makes my chest ache.