Chapter 33
ROMERO
“Did you know your mother–in–law has been in touch with Mikkel Verona?” Sandro drops this bombshell while I’m scanning the report he just slapped on my desk. A report that clearly states the Verona Outfit as responsible for John Barlowe’s death. The same criminal gang that sent John to spy on me.
“She can’t cause much trouble from the rehab,” I mutter, glancing up at Sandro’s smug face. “Now, tell me what the hell this report means.”
“Oh, you’re going to love me for this.” Sandro grins and drops into the chair across from my desk. “When I noticed how smitten you’d gotten with your wife–”
“I’m not smitten.”
“—I decided to have a little chat with Hansen. You remember Hansen, right? He was the one assigned to take Barlowe out back then.” He continues talking right over my denial, which is probably smart.
“So I asked him straight up: how exactly did you kill John? And why didn’t we get a trophy?
A finger, a toe, hell, even a tooth—anything. And guess what? He broke.”
I raise a skeptical brow. “He confessed he didn’t actually kill John?”
“Bingo.” Sandro snaps his finger. “When he went to get John, the wife had already filed a missing person report with the cops. So our boy tried to track him down first. Traced his last known whereabouts all the way to Verona’s clubhouse.
” He pauses, letting it sink in. “Turns out Mikkel beat us to the punch—discovered John was playing both sides and handled the problem himself.”
“And Hansen kept this little detail to himself because…?” I frown, the story not adding up, even though every fiber of my being wants it to be true. Because if it is true, then I’m not responsible for the death of Leni’s father after all.
Sandro shrugs. “Ego? Fear? Maybe both? He told me he wasn’t sure how you’d react to that news. Figured it was easier to let you think the job was done clean.”
So he lied. My frown deepens. I’m not sure I believe that. “Keep tabs on Amelia’s visitors’ list at the rehab. And put eyes on Mikkel too.” Whether he killed John or not, he can’t have a good reason for reaching out to the wife of a man who betrayed him. He must have something up his sleeve.
“Bring Hansen to me and—”
My phone pings with a text. It’s my investigator. When I read his message, everything else fades to background noise.
Adam
I found him. Your medication thief. Taking him to the bunk now.
“Adam found the thief. He’s taking him to the bunk.” I’m on my feet before I finish speaking, and Sandro matches my movement instantly. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”
The ‘bunk’ isn’t really a bunk at all.
It’s an abandoned inn I discovered years ago and bought—out on the edge of Brooklyn, near the Hole, far enough to stay off the radar of law enforcement. I use it when I have vermin I need to take care of.
Vermin very much like the piece of shit zip-tied to the metal chair in front of me right now.
His hands are secured behind his back, his face already decorated with fresh bruises courtesy of Adam’s welcoming committee—guess he didn’t appreciate how slippery this bastard turned out to be.
Jake—that’s his name—keeps eye contact with me, but the tremor in his legs gives away just how terrified he really is. That and the sweat pouring down his face like he knows what’s coming next.
He should. That’s why he ran away.
He stole from me. Worse—he stole from her. My mother. Because I supply those medications for her, because of her.
I crouch in front of him, resting my forearms on my knees like I’m about to have a calm chat over coffee. “You know who I am?” I ask casually. Of course he does.
Jake nods frantically, his lips shaking as he stammers out, “Ro–Romero. Yeah. I—I didn’t know the meds were yours. I swear.”
“You didn’t know,” I repeat flatly. “You didn’t know you were stealing insulin meant for orphaned kids who’ll go into diabetic shock without it?
The Ozempic that most women wait three months to get their hands on?
The chemo drugs that mean the difference between six months and six years for cancer patients? ”
He shakes his head violently, blubbering and sobbing. “I didn’t know. I swear. I didn’t know.”
Lying piece of shit.
“You know what I hate more than thieving vermin like you?” I ask, my tone still conversational. “Thieving vermin who resort to lying after they’re caught. There’s honor in owning up to your actions, you know?”
A pathetic whimper bubbles from his throat. “I’m so sorry. I just needed the cash, man.” He swallows hard. “It was just a couple boxes. I didn’t know people were getting hurt. I didn’t think you’d even notice.”
“I notice everything.” I stand up slowly, beginning a lazy circle around his chair, building his fear as my boots crunch on the hardwood floor.
“For example, I noticed exactly what you did with some of the medications you stole. You crushed the painkillers. Mixed them. Sold them to junkies on the street.”
He has the sense to keep his mouth shut now.
“You flooded a shelter in Hunts Point with fentanyl-laced garbage that was meant for hospice patients,” I continue, reaching for the small metal tray on the table next to him.
My tools are laid out neatly: pliers, a blowtorch, a surgical scalpel, and a hammer.
Equipment I rarely use personally anymore—I never had a stomach for torture the way my brothers do, but I know how to get results when necessary.
“Remember the warehouse you worked at? The one you stole from?” I ask as I step behind him, yanking the zip tie around his wrists tighter until he winces.
“My men risk prison bringing these drugs in. Not coke. Not meth. Medicine. Life-saving medicine. We move what this country’s broken healthcare system makes impossible to afford because someone has to do it. ”
I circle back to face him, meeting his terrified gaze head-on.
“My mother died when I was sixteen.” My voice drops to something dangerously quiet.
“Her blood sugar spiked and we couldn’t get the insulin she needed in time.
If we’d had just one injection of what you sold for a quick buck… she might still be here.”
His eyes bulge wide, and his chest starts heaving as his breathing becomes rapid and shallow. The full weight of how catastrophically he’s fucked up finally sinking in. “Please—”
“If you needed to steal medications for profit, you should’ve done it anywhere but my territory, Jake. None of my brothers would’ve taken your theft quite so personally.”
Before he can form another pathetic plea, I drive my fist into his ribs. Once. Twice. Pain blooms across my knuckles, but I don’t stop until I hear that satisfying crack of bone giving way.
His head snaps back as he screams an apology to the ceiling, his voice fracturing with the effort.
“I don’t need your apology,” I tell him matter-of-factly, flexing my fingers to work out the ache. “You’re only sorry you got caught, not for what you did. Not yet. But I will make you sorry.”
The medication supply isn’t just business for me. It’s how I honor my mother’s memory. My last homage to the woman who deserved better than this world gave her. And this piece of shit disrespected that.
I pick up the pliers.
One by one, I crush the fingers he used to break into the lockboxes where the medications are stashed during transport.
Each finger produces a wet, grinding sound as bone and cartilage give way under the metal teeth.
His screams climb higher and higher until his voice breaks, leaving him making inhuman croaking sounds.
Pathetic.
Sandro stands nearby, arms crossed, expression impassive as he watches me work. He has witnessed—and dealt out—plenty of torture himself over the years. This is just a normal day for him.
“I’m sorry!” Jake cries out, each syllable jagged, torn from what’s left of his voice. Maybe he is sorry now, but it’s too late. I don’t stop my work on his hand.
Once all his fingers are nothing but useless, mangled flesh, I move to the scalpel. I carve a thin, clean line down his forearm—not deep, but just enough to hurt. Enough to make him realize that death isn’t coming quickly. No, I’m going to draw this out.
“You stole medicine meant for people who can’t afford to buy it the legal way,” I remind him of his crimes again. “You fed poison to addicts using meds that were supposed to save lives.”
“Please, just kill me already.” He starts crying—real, gut-wrenching sobs that shake his shoulders, snot and tears mixing with the blood coating his face.
“Now that’s the first request you’ve made that I’m happy to grant.” I set down the scalpel and pick up the hammer, testing its weight in my palm.
I lift it high and Jake begins struggling against his restraints with renewed desperation, even though I’m only giving him exactly what he just begged for.
Unfortunately for him, he’s not going anywhere.
To draw out his terror, I slowly lower the hammer and place it back on the table. Jake deflates with relief so intense that his bladder releases, the sharp smell of urine joining the metallic scent of blood on the concrete floor. My nose wrinkles in disgust.
“Coward,” Sandro comments caustically from behind me, and I chuckle as I take out my Kurth Mongoose, running my fingers along its cold frame before tightening my grip.
Jake stiffens again, realizing he’s nowhere near out of the woods yet.
The chamber pops open with a soft click, and he gulps. One by one the empty rounds drop into my palm, the metallic clinking almost musical in the oppressive silence. I pocket five, then slip the last one back in, the bullet cool and smooth against my fingers before it settles into place.
With a practiced hand, I spin the cylinder. The faint whir of metal mixes with the grating sound of chair legs scraping against the floor as Jake starts struggling again. He can sense where this is going.
I raise the revolver, and he shakes his head frantically. “Just kidding.” I chuckle and holster my gun. “You’re not worth wasting ammunition on.”
Done playing games with him, I pick up the hammer again.
This time, there’s no hesitation, no false mercy.
Jake’s struggle increases to the point where the chair starts rocking, but it won’t tip.
With a steady arm and a single, hard swing, the hammer hits his skull with a loud crack that echoes throughout the inn’s room.
Jake jerks, once, twice, then his body slumps forward, lifeless, blood rushing from his crushed head to pool beneath the chair.
I stand there for a moment, staring at what’s left of him, waiting for some sense of satisfaction or closure. But I feel… nothing.
“Not as satisfying as I thought it would be. Felt like squashing a cockroach,” I say as I turn towards Sandro, wiping my hands on the rag he offers before tossing it aside.
“Burn it all,” I instruct, though the order is hardly necessary. We’ve worked together for a decade—he knows not to leave any trace of what happened here tonight.
Sandro nods briskly. “Want me to put word out about what happened to this fool?”
“Yeah.” I’ve been playing respectable lawyer for so long that people seem to have forgotten who I really am, and how much bloodshed it took me to get here. “Take a picture. Spread it. Let them know what happens when they steal from Romero Lombardi.”
I adjust the lapels of my jacket, noticing the blood splatter on my clothes. “And make sure every box from here on out is double-sealed. Nobody touches shit without clearance.”