The Favor Collector (The Russo Mafia #2)

Chapter 1

Matteo

The contact I’m supposed to meet is twenty fucking minutes late, and I’m still standing here like patience is my virtue. It isn’t. My watch ticks away seconds that should be filled with business, not this waiting game at the marina—Rock a circle of flame.

For a second, I can’t look away. The flames move like they’re breathing, the glow painting the air in hellish gold. It’s pretty and fucking hypnotic. The ring flares higher, fed by something unseen, and the hairs on my arms rise.

Another sound reaches my ears, but before I can react, there’s an explosion.

It doesn’t hit as a single force but as a symphony of destruction. First the concussive boom that punches through my chest like a fist, then the searing wave of heat that follows, lifting me off my feet as easily as a child’s doll.

I’m airborne for what feels like eternity, the night sky wheeling above me before concrete rushes up to meet my back.

The impact forces air from my lungs. I try to inhale and taste copper and smoke instead. My ears ring with a high, piercing whine that drowns out everything else. Through it, I hear muffled, distant screaming.

My vision blurs, I turn my head to look for Merl, pain spiderwebbing down my neck, and see what’s left of him. A twisted shape, silhouetted against flame—he’s gone. As if the blast erased him.

Warm blood trickles into my eye. I touch my face; my fingers come away scarlet. Not just skin—my left eye. The pain hasn’t registered yet, but I know, with detached certainty, it’s fucked.

Metal screams as my car—or what’s left of it—collapses in on itself, consumed by hungry flames. Shards of glass glitter like diamonds across the pavement, catching and reflecting the infernal light.

Beautiful in its way. Mesmerizing. The thought drifts through my mind that perhaps I’m in shock.

I try to stand, but my body refuses. I manage to roll onto my side instead, and only then does the pain find me. A tidal wave of agony so intense that my vision whites out.

Every nerve ending howls as if I’ve been flayed alive. My suit is in tatters, the fabric melted into my skin in places. The smell is what gets me; burning hair, burning flesh.

My flesh.

Debris rains down; metal fragments, chunks of concrete, ash. A piece of something—a car part? warehouse?—smolders beside my head.

I need to move. The knowledge pulses with each beat of my heart, which somehow continues its stubborn rhythm despite everything.

Through the curtain of blood streaming from my eye, I see figures moving in the distance. Not my men. Someone else. Shadows against flame, approaching with the unhurried confidence of those who set the trap and know their prey is caught.

This was planned. The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity. Not random. Not an accident. Someone wanted me dead.

With a painful grunt, I reach for my gun, but my holster is empty. Lost in the blast or torn away, it doesn’t matter. I’m defenseless, broken, bleeding out on concrete that grows slick with my blood.

The pain recedes slightly, which I recognize as another bad sign. My body is preparing to shut down. Not like this. Not by some anonymous fucking bomb.

Russos don’t die in the shadows.

I drag myself backward, each movement sending fresh agony through my body. Glass and metal bite into my palms. My left leg doesn’t respond properly—something’s torn or broken.

The approaching figures come closer, their faces hidden by the stark contrast of firelight behind them. Three, maybe four. I count the seconds between heartbeats, measuring how long I have left. Not long enough.

A car engine roars to life somewhere beyond the flames.

Another explosion, smaller this time. But the heat is unbearable, blistering my exposed skin, cooking me alive.

I laugh, though it comes out as a wet, broken sound. Death by fire. My parents would appreciate the symmetry.

The flames reflect in the pools of blood spreading around me, turning them into mirrors of Hell. I should be afraid, but all I feel is rage—pure, undiluted rage that someone dared to think they could erase me.

If I survive this, I’ll find them. I’ll burn their world to ashes and make them watch before I put them in the ground.

Darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision. The pain becomes distant, theoretical. I’m cold now, despite the inferno surrounding me. My good eye fixes on the flames consuming what’s left of my life, and in their dance, I see patterns, secrets, promises.

The fire whispers to me as consciousness slips away, and I could swear it speaks my name.

“Matteo,” it whispers. “Join us.”

Someone’s roaring in pain and… wait, is that me? Am I even here?

I jerk awake beneath fire. Not metaphorical—actual fucking fire, licking at metal twisted above me like a grotesque canopy.

My left eye won’t open, sealed shut with something wet and sticky. Pain pulses everywhere at once, a symphony of agony that makes it impossible to locate any single wound. I’m pinned under something heavy as smoke fills my lungs with each desperate gasp.

Not dead yet, then. Disappointment to whoever planned this little party.

I push against the weight on my chest. It barely moves. I try again, muscles screaming, and gain maybe an inch. Enough to wriggle sideways, dragging myself through glass and debris.

My shirt sticks to my skin, fused by heat. When I move, it tears away, taking layers of flesh with it. I don’t scream. Won’t give them the satisfaction, whoever they are.

The world tilts, straightens, tilts again as I claw my way from beneath the twisted metal. Each movement is a negotiation with pain. Each breath tastes of ash and copper. I drag myself across shattered concrete, leaving a trail of blood behind me like a signature.

Through the billowing smoke, shapes emerge—two figures moving toward the wreckage. I recognize them even through my damaged vision. Rafe’s broad shoulders, Remus’s controlled stride.

Family.

“Jesus Christ… Matteo!” Rafe reaches me first, his face contorting as he takes in my condition. “Don’t move, don’t… fuck.”

Remus appears beside him, his expression carved from stone. Only his eyes betray his rage, burning hotter than the surrounding flames.

He barks something at his brother, but I’m too far gone to make out the words.

As they lift me between them, I finally scream. The intense pain is too exquisite, too bright to ignore.

“Stay with us,” Rafe demands, his voice distant through the ringing in my ears. “Don’t you fucking die on us. You owe me, fucker. And I won’t let a minor injury get in the way of collecting my debt. Do you hear me? Do you fucking hear me, Matteo? You. Fucking. Owe. Me.”

I want to tell him Russos don’t die easily, but my mouth won’t form the words. Instead, I focus on the next breath. Just one more. Then another.

Darkness tries to swallow me, and with each excruciating step they take, I fight it less and less.

I pass out again…

The next time I wake, we’re moving, every bump in the road sending fresh waves of agony through my broken body.

“… call Lorenzo,” Remus is saying, his voice fading in and out like a bad radio signal. “This was planned. Has to be…”

Darkness swallows me. When light returns, we’re still moving.

“… losing too much blood…”

I slip under again. This time, I dream. Not of the explosion but of an older fire—the one that took my parents.

Flames climbing wallpaper, licking across the ceiling. My mom’s screams as the flames claimed her life. My father’s hands, pushing me toward the window. The fall. The impact. Watching our home become a funeral pyre.

The next time I peel my eyelid back, we’ve stopped. Doors slam and voices shout. Hands reach for me, lifting me onto something flat and hard.

White coats blur around me. Someone cuts away what remains of my clothes. Cold air hits exposed flesh, and I hiss through clenched teeth.

“Severe burns…”

I catch fragments of their assessment, clinical terms for my dismantling. A woman with steel-gray hair leans over me, her gaze calm but urgent.