Kanyan (Gatti Enforcers #1)

13. Kanyan

13

KANYAN

T he sun isn’t up yet, but I’m already at the office, sitting in the dim light with my elbows on the desk and my head in my hands. I haven’t been home since the call came in about the holding facility. The night’s been a blur of damage control—calls to trusted men, reviewing what little surveillance we have, and running through every possible angle. It’s all leading me nowhere, and the rage sits heavy in my chest, burning like acid.

By the time the first streaks of dawn break the sky, I’m back in my car, heading toward the Gatti Estate. Scar’s mansion looms as I approach, its gates parting for me like I’m being swallowed whole.

Scar’s war room is just as I remember it—sharp, clean, and entirely impersonal. A long table dominates the center, maps and blueprints scattered across its surface. The walls are lined with screens displaying live feeds from various parts of the city, their flickering light giving the room an eerie glow. Nothing escapes the attention of this room; people are watching the city for movement every minute of any given day.

Scar is already there, leaning back in a leather chair with the kind of ease that makes me want to punch something. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, even though he probably knows every detail of what’s gone down. His brother Brando stands nearby, hands in his pockets, his sharp gaze slicing through me the moment I step inside. Brando is the brooding brother who says more with his eyes than he does with his words.

“You heard?” I say, not bothering to mask the bitterness in my voice.

Scar smirks, his relaxed posture infuriating. “Oh, I heard. And then some.”

There’s something about the way he stays so damn calm that makes me feel like I’m drowning. I haven’t been leading the Moreno family long enough to have had this many screw-ups, but it sure as hell feels like I’m already in over my head.

Brando steps forward, his eyes pinning me in place. He tilts his head slightly, forcing me to meet his gaze. It’s a subtle move, but it carries the weight of command. Brando may be Scar’s underboss, but it’s so obvious that these two brothers share equal responsibility and authority of the Gatti family. I straighten instinctively, pushing my shoulders back. Whatever this is, I won’t show weakness.

“This will be one of many disasters you’ll face,” Brando says evenly. His tone isn’t harsh, but it cuts all the same. “Don’t let it be the thing that breaks you.”

I inhale slowly, steadying myself. His support catches me off guard. I’d come here bracing for anger, maybe even an ultimatum. I expected accusations or demands for me to step down. But Brando’s words are something else—unexpected, almost encouraging.

“You cleaned house,” Scar says, breaking the silence. “But you didn’t take out all the trash.”

The jab lands like a punch, but I don’t flinch. I know exactly what he’s talking about. The men I inherited from Victor Moreno. That family was a cesspool of corruption and betrayal long before I took the reins, and stepping into that role was like walking into quicksand. I’ve been fighting to claw my way out ever since.

Brando starts pacing the room, his measured steps adding weight to his words. “You know what you’ve brought into the family, but you don’t know the full extent of the rot. Moreno’s men can’t be trusted. Not entirely.”

“You’re talking about dozens of men,” I remind him. The logistics of replacing them all would be staggering. The Moreno family isn’t a small operation and cutting out that many people would leave us vulnerable. “It’s not that simple.”

Scar leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his smirk fading into something colder. “It’s never simple. But if history has taught us anything, it’s that some wars are won with only a few good men.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. I know he’s right. The men I’ve kept on out of necessity—the ones I haven’t had the time or resources to properly vet—are a liability. They’re a weak link, and this arms heist proves it. Whoever hit us had inside information.

“I need time,” I say, my voice firm. “If I purge them all at once, it’ll leave us exposed. I need to replace them strategically.”

Brando stops pacing and looks at me again, his expression unreadable. “Then start now. Begin with the ones you know you can’t trust. The rest will either fall in line or fall on their own swords soon enough.”

Scar nods, his gaze sharp. “It’s your mess to clean, Kanyan. But know this—if you don’t handle it, we will. And you won’t like how we do things.”

The warning is clear, but there’s no malice in it. Just a simple statement of fact. The Gatti brothers may be supporting me right now, but their patience has limits. They put their faith in me, and it’s time for me to make good on my services to the family.

I nod, meeting their eyes in turn. “I’ll handle it.”

Scar leans back in his chair again, the smirk returning to his face. “Good. I know you will.”

Brando’s voice catches me on the way out of the room. The Gattis and Seattle are counting on me to run this family with an iron fist, and I’m not about to let them down. Especially not after what Brando tells me.

“Caleph Rojas will be replacing the arms,” he tells me. “His gift to you.”

The meaning behind the words is not lost on me. No matter how much faith I think they have in me, it’s so much more than that. These men believe in me. Caleph runs Seattle with Dante Accardi, Attila the Hunter and The Jekyll, a formidable team if ever there was one.

As I leave the estate, the weight of the meeting settles on me. Cleaning house won’t be easy, but it’s the only way forward. I’ve fought too hard to let this family fall apart now. The Gattis trust me to fix this—or at least, they’re giving me the chance to.

The stakes are higher than ever now. And failure isn’t an option.

Timing is everything.

“Boy, you have lousy timing, don’t you ?”

My mother’s words echo in my head as I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather biting into my palms. Timing is everything. It’s what separates life from death, victory from failure. Every move I’ve made, every decision I’ve taken, has been a gamble with timing. Right place, wrong time. Or wrong place, right time. It’s always a matter of perspective.

This morning, though, the timing feels cursed. The holding facility heist is a gaping wound I can’t stop poking at. I can still see the empty crates in my mind, their dusty outlines mocking me. Whoever pulled this off knew exactly what they were doing. Knew where to hit, when to hit, and how to leave me with nothing but questions and an empty goddamn unit.

The city is just waking up as I drive, the hum of the engine filling the early morning silence. My thoughts race faster than the car, every scenario playing out in my head. Was it someone inside the Moreno ranks? Or worse, someone pretending to be loyal while selling us out?

My gut tightens as I approach the stretch of road leading to the holding facility. It’s quiet—too quiet. At this hour, I expect the usual buzz of early morning traffic or the occasional drunk stumbling across the street. But now, the silence feels oppressive, like the city itself lays in waiting, holding its breath.

I slow down instinctively, my eyes scanning the shadows where the sun hasn’t yet made its home. There’s a figure on the sidewalk, leaning against a lamppost. They’re hunched over, hood pulled low, but something about their stance sets me on edge.

Timing.

As I pass them, I catch the glint of something metallic in their hand. My instincts scream at me, and I duck just as a loud crack splits the air. The windshield explodes in a spiderweb of shattered glass, and I barely register the pain as something hot grazes my shoulder.

“Shit!”

I slam my foot on the gas, the car lurching forward as more gunshots echo behind me. The rearview mirror shows the figure running toward a dark van parked a block away. They’re not alone—another person climbs out, pointing a rifle my way. I swerve hard, tires screeching, as another round clips the side of the car and the car stalls. The men climb back into the van and barrel towards me, just as my car lurches to a jolting start.

The engine roars as I push it to its limits, weaving through side streets to lose them. My pulse hammers in my ears, adrenaline drowning out everything else. The lack of traffic aids me, pushing me forward toward safety. It’s all about timing. I know these streets like the back of my hand, and I take turns at random, zigzagging until I’m sure they’re not on my tail.

By the time I reach my building, my shoulder is screaming in pain, and my head is spinning. I punch the code to the underground garage, the metal gate groaning as it slides open. The car scrapes against the concrete wall as I park, but I couldn’t care less.

I stumble out of the driver’s seat, clutching my shoulder. Warm blood seeps through my shirt, and I grit my teeth against the wave of nausea that follows. The bullet must’ve just grazed me—lucky, considering the alternative.

The basement is dark and quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen. I stagger toward the elevator in the corner, tearing off my jacket and shirt to assess the damage. The gash isn’t deep, but it’s messy, and the blood won’t stop.

I press my jacket against the wound and let out a string of curses that could make a sailor blush. Who the hell opens fire on someone in the middle of the city at 6am in the morning? And why now, when I’m already drowning in enough problems to sink a ship? Who even knew I’d be driving down that route?

As I press the jacket tighter, my mind starts piecing things together. This wasn’t random. Someone knew where I’d be. Someone wanted to send a message.

Timing.

I grab my phone with my uninjured hand and make a call. Mason picks up on the second ring, his voice groggy but alert. “Kanyan? What’s going on?”

“I’ve been shot,” I say, my voice hard and clipped, as I stagger into my apartment. “Someone shot at me on my way to the storage unit.”

There’s a pause, and then Mason’s voice sharpens. “Where are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s a graze.” I leave out the part where I almost lost control of the car. “I need you to lock down the streets near the facility. Check every camera, every witness, every scrap of evidence. Whoever did this, I want their name by midday.”

“Got it.”

I hang up and lean against the door, staring at my reflection in the entry mirror. My face is pale, blood smeared across my chest and shoulder. I look like hell.

But this isn’t over.

Whoever pulled the trigger on me is going to regret not finishing the job.