Mafia King’s Forbidden Obsession (Savage Mafia Empire)

18. Ezra

Chapter eighteen

Ezra

Despite the walls of my office being soundproof, I could still feel the bass from the club downstairs. I lean back against the leather seat in my office, fingers drumming on the armrest. My mind’s been racing all day—the FBI task force, Russo, Tsvetok Smerti.

It’s been almost two weeks, and there are still no leads on the Russian alias or Russo. With the task force now breathing down my neck more than ever, it’s all been frustrating.

The phone rings, cutting through the quiet. I stare at it for a second, irritation crawling up my skin. I dislike late-night calls; they’re always trouble. As soon as I pick up the device and glance at the caller ID, I realize that this conversation will be no exception.

I fist the phone, fully aware that the news will not be positive. “Talk.”

“Marino,” Miller’s voice comes through, tense. “I’m afraid there’s bad news. I’ve just been temporarily suspended from the agency.”

Suspended? My grip tightens on the phone.

“I’m under serious investigation. The head of the task force, Frank Paterson…he suspects I have something to do with the cartels. There’s word that there's a good reason behind his suspicion,” he pauses. “Possibly even hard evidence against you in particular.”

I say nothing but listen, vexation scratching at my gut. Business has been slow because of him… my cartel is barely hitting targets because of the bastard. I can’t help but wonder what evidence Frank might have collected against me.

“He’s coming after you hard—”

Fuck!

I hang up without saying a word and toss the phone on the table. The head of the task force has got his claws deeper than I imagined. There’s no second to waste.

Acting fast is the only alternative. God, when I lay my hands on that bastard…

I grab my jacket, feeling the weight of my gun tucked in my waistband. It’s not a question of what I’m going to do. I already know I will not have my empire coming down on my watch.

Slamming my hand against the desk, I rise and pace the length of my office. A knock cuts me off midway, and the door pushes open.

Elio walks in. “Don,” he greets.

“Elio, I have something important to do right now,” I growl, walking past him.

“I think you’re going to want to hear this,” Elio says.

I pause in my tracks and turn back to look at him. “ Cosa c'è (What is it)?”

“It’s about Frank Paterson, the head of the special task force. He’s not as clean as he pretends to be.”

He’s got my attention. I stare at him for a few seconds before moving back to the desk and leaning against the edge. The anger is still thick in my chest as I give him a nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“ è coinvolto con Russo (He’s involved with Russo).” Elio responds, as he hands me a document. I notice he’s holding it for the first time.

My eyes widen slightly as I immediately flip the document open, my eyes scanning through Frank Paterson’s bank transactions and phone records. It doesn’t take long before I see a name highlighted in yellow.

“Liam Pratt? Who’s that?” I ask.

Elio immediately pulls out two photos tucked into his suit jacket and hands them to me. I recognize the first picture from before we stormed Russo’s apartment. It was the picture of him and another fellow in the alley, the man Elio had said was a small-time dealer. The fellow’s face is obscured in this photo.

When I look at the second photo, my breath catches in my throat. A man with the same build is in a jacket, FBI written boldly over the breast pocket—he’s the same person from the first picture. His blue eyes gleam as his lips spread in a smile for the camera.

“He’s an informant for the task force.” Elio’s voice is grim.

Elio’s words echo in my mind. Either Russo’s feeding them information, or he’s working directly with the task force. He must be slipping them every move we make, everything he’s learned about the cartel from Tomasso.

I clench my fist as the pieces fall into place. It becomes clear that the entire border operation was specifically aimed at my cartel. What initially appeared to be a Trojan horse, masked as a campaign for order, was actually a scheme where I am the primary target.

“Russo is indeed working his ass off…” I hiss, my teeth grinding as my mind works. “And Miller claims Paterson’s clean and incorruptible?” I scoff.

“ Un'altra cosa (One more thing),” Elio adds, drawing closer to me and tapping on a particular bank statement highlighted in purple on the next page. “Seems like he’s also somehow associated with the alias.”

When I see the name Tsvetok Smerti, my pulse quickens, and anger bubbles inside of me. “Paterson is connected with Smerti somehow, just like Russo.”

My second-in-command nods. “Smerti is well hidden. He’s a ghost.”

I feel a growl rising in my throat. “ Dov’ Paterson (Where’s Paterson)?”

Elio quickly replies. “His home. Detached bungalow at this address.” He points at another page from the papers in my hand. “Do I get the men ready?”

“No. Voglio farlo da solo (I want to do this alone).”

Elio obliges. “He’s got security, but nothing you can’t handle.”

“Take charge of things here, Elio. I’m going to pay this bastard a visit immediately,” I grit, closing the file and taking it with me out of the office.

The air outside is thick and cold. My car comes into view as I reach where it’s parked.

I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut, my eyes narrowing as I grip the wheel. Igniting the engine, I drive out of the parking lot and onto the road.

I drive fast, the city blurring past in a rush of lights and darkness. The streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement, and every now and then, I catch my reflection in the mirror—my jaw set, eyes hard.

After a few minutes, I pull up two buildings across from Paterson’s. The street is quieter here, save for a few dog walkers at the farthest end. Expensive cars are parked along the curbs of similar bungalows, streetlights casting long shadows. I can tell that whatever action I take, provided it’s subtle, will face little or no external interference.

The identical houses that line the street are all modern, new homes with clean lines, big windows, and low-pitched roofs.

I take in Frank’s house, spotting two security personnel on the porch playing cards. I pick up a silencer from the pigeonhole and screw it onto my gun as I calculate what to do next.

Then I take off my suit jacket, pick up the file on Paterson from the passenger seat, and tuck the stack of papers under my arm.

With my head tucked into my chest, I cross the street and walk close to the shrub fence. Stealthily, I crouch and scope out the front porch, gun at the ready to take out the guards.

The cold night air bites at my skin, but it is not a deterrent to my plan. With two clean shots to the head, the men dressed in black crumple to the ground.

Moving fast, I approach the entrance. Once there, I test the doorknob, which is unlocked. I push it open, my gun already positioned, and take measured steps inside.

The interior is minimalistic, and the furniture seems to be expensive. He seems pretty well off.

Muffled sounds draw my attention; I make out a voice I believe belongs to Frank. I walk towards the sound, my feet making no sound on the wooden floors as I go past three closed doors on each side of the hallway.

His voice grows louder when I near a door on the right. Silently pulling it open, I see him in his home office, seated in a swivel chair, holding a pen and paper, a hot beverage steaming in a mug on a table beside him. The television is turned on, but he is not focused on it.

He talks to himself while he jots down on the paper. Are those his brilliant ideas to take me down?

Well, not tonight.

I step into the room, gun pointed at him before he even realizes he’s not alone.

“Ezra Marino,” he says, his voice cracking with surprise. He tries to act calm, but I can see the fear in his eyes. He wasn’t expecting me.

I stay where I am, not lowering the gun. “You’ve been busy.”

He sets his pen and jotter down slowly, raising his hands in a mock show of surrender. “I’m just doing my job, Mr. Marino. You know how this works.”

I take a step closer, the aim of my gun not wavering from his head. My steps are slow and deliberate. He gulps, his hands shake just slightly, and the act rekindles the anger I felt in the office. The seemingly almighty task force head is a fucking pussy.

“Do I? Because I don’t understand how your job involves Russo.”

His face twitches, just for a second, but I catch it. He knows he’s cornered.

“You’re grasping at straws,” he tries to sound confident. “It won’t be long now before I finally have you behind bars. You’ll pay for all the illegal activities you’ve been carrying out. You’ll pay for your sins.”

“Tsvetok Smerti. What dealings do you have with him?” I ignore his rants, gritting my teeth as my thumb grazes the trigger.

I don’t give him time to process my words and toss the file on the table between us. It lands with a heavy thud, the papers spilling out. His eyes flick to the evidence, his face going pale as he realizes what’s in front of him.

“I’ve got proof of you doing deals with a drug dealer whom you’re supposed to lock up.” My voice is deathly low. “You’re not walking out of this.”

He stares at the papers for a moment. I see the wheels turn in his head before his expression hardens, his jaw clenching.

“You think this changes anything?” he sneers, trying to regain control. “You’re still going down, Ezra. It’s only a matter of time.”

I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “You’d better start talking and tell me where Russo and Smerti are, or by God, you’ll regret it.”

Before I can react, his hand shoots towards the inside of his sweater. My brain goes into overdrive, he’s reaching for his gun. I don’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

My silencer suppresses the sound of the gunshot from reverberating throughout the house. He lets out a grunt as the bullet guts his side. He falls back into the armchair while holding his side, blood oozing through his fingers, tainting the wool sweater.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say, taking a step closer to him.

I don’t see his other hand slip under his sweater until the metallic glint of a gun emerges. A split second later, the sharp bang of gunfire shatters the air. My heart races as the sound of a gunshot echoes in my ears.

In an instant, a blinding pain explodes in my arm, sharp and blinding. I stagger back, clutching my arm, but I don’t drop my gun. Blood seeps through my fingers as I hiss at the pain.

Fucking hell!

He attempts to fire at me once more, but I’m already in motion. I shoot him directly in the chest this time, a wave of satisfaction filling my guts as he starts to jerk, sputtering crimson liquid from his mouth. Blood flows from the hole in his chest and slowly drenches his sweater. The gun falls from his loose grip, but the bastard is still struggling to breathe.

I don’t wait for him to take another breath. In two strides, I’m in front of him. His eyes strain to stay open. I let him have one last glance at me before firing again, this time at his head. He immediately grows limp.

The room is silent now, except for the pounding of my heart and the faint ringing in my ears from the shootout.

“You should’ve stayed out of my way,” I grit out.

I stand over him, breathing hard, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. The ache in my left arm intensifies, a burning sensation searing through it. I look down and see an ocean of blood soaking through my white sleeve. If I stay here any longer, I could bleed to death.

Instinctively, I reach for my phone. The device is slippery beneath my fingers and almost slips from my hand, but I clench my hold against it.

I dial one on my speed dial. It rings twice—long, drawn-out seconds—before someone picks up on the other end.

“Get our operations moving again immediately. And get the cleanup boys to my location right now.” My voice is rough. The cleanup boys would discard every piece of evidence linking me to this location. The last thing we want is the investigation of Frank Paterson's death leading to my doorstep.

There’s a pause on the other end, then Elio’s voice filters through. “ Capito, capo. E tu (Understood, Boss. What about you)?”

Pain spreads from the spot to other parts of my arm. I can feel my whole arm growing weak and heavy, each pulse weaker than the last, but it’ll do just fine to get me through the drive.

“ Sopravviverò (I’ll live),” I respond and hang up, stuffing the phone back in my pocket.

I tuck the gun in the band of my pants and clutch the wound with my other arm before heading out of the office to the front porch.

With small grunts, I retrace my steps, slipping through the shadows like a ghost. In no time, I’m in my car, one hand on the steering wheel and the other still applying pressure on my arm.

My vision blurs as familiar lightheadedness washes over me. Still, I ignite the engine and step on the accelerator like my life depends on it. Well, it does.