24. Nerio
24
NERIO
I lean back in my chair, gaze flicking between the security feeds and Elliott's hunched form. His fingers fly across the keyboard, face illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen.
The sight of him sets my teeth on edge. My mind flicks back to when Jazz walked in with him — and seeing her with another guy made me see red. She brought him in to help with the Mantione situation, but I don't fucking like her around people like him.
I’m still grinding my teeth over her ex, wishing I could bring him back to life and kill himself.
The Costa family might not be direct enemies, but Elliott's involvement with them means he's no innocent tech geek. His carefully crafted persona — the thick-framed glasses, the casual demeanor — it's all smoke and mirrors. I've seen what he can do. He's fucking ruthless, even if he seems…nice.
I watch Elliott's reflection in one of the dark screens. Behind those thick-rimmed glasses and easy smile lies the kind of guy who once encrypted a rival's entire network with ransomware, then systematically deleted their backups while they scrambled to pay. Left them bleeding money for weeks.
"Found anything interesting?" I keep my tone casual, testing.
"Mantiones are sloppy." He doesn't look up from his screen. "Their security's full of holes. Like they want people watching." His lips curl into a predatory smile. "Makes it easy to plant false trails."
I raise an eyebrow. "Speaking from experience?"
"Let's just say the Costas didn't hire me for my winning personality." Elliott stretches, joints cracking. "Two years ago, some dipshit tried muscling in on their territory. I buried him in debt, destroyed his reputation, then leaked evidence of fraud to the feds. By the time they were done with him, guy couldn't even get a library card."
The cold calculation in his voice matches the darkness I've seen in his work. This isn't some keyboard warrior playing at being dangerous. He's carved his own bloody path through the digital underworld.
"You met Jazz through her friend?" He nods, though we both know I already knew that answer. "She doesn't know what you really do, does she?"
His fingers pause on the keys. "She knows enough. That I handle 'tech security' for certain interests." He glances up, expression hardening. "Speaking of — are you planning to tell Jazz about the camera feeds you're watching of her at all times? Or should I?"
My jaw clenches. Fucking tech geeks and their ability to find shit that should stay buried. "That's my business."
"Sure." He shrugs, but there's steel beneath the casual gesture. "But we have a mutual friend — one I'd help out if she asks. And I've got enough dirt on everyone in this city to make things real uncomfortable if anything happens to her."
It's not an empty threat. I've seen the kind of scorched earth Elliott leaves behind when someone crosses him or his people.
Before I can say anything more, the door opens and Marco strides in, jaw clenched tight. "We lost another shipment."
I mute the security feeds. "Where?"
"South Side dock. Mantiones hit hard. Three of our guys in the hospital." Marco's hands curl into fists. "They're getting bold after what happened to their crew."
"Of course they are." I stand, rolling my shoulders. "Dead family members tend to have that effect."
Elliott's typing slows, his attention clearly divided between his screen and our conversation. Smart boy — gathering intel while pretending not to listen.
"We should hit back," Marco says, pacing. "Send a message."
"And start an all-out war?" I shake my head. "Lorenzo wants this handled quietly."
"Fuck quiet. They're bleeding us dry."
"Watch your tone." My voice drops low, a warning that makes Marco freeze mid-step. "I understand your frustration, but we play this smart."
"And the shipments we lost?"
"Write them off. For now." I walk to the window, studying the Chicago skyline.
Before I can say anything more, Elliott turns around. "Hey, Nerio? I think you're going to want to see this."
Perfect timing.
I walk to my desk. "Bring it over here."
He closes his laptop, unplugs a small flash drive, and approaches my desk. His movements are careful, measured. Smart man.
Everything about him is perfectly crafted. I'd respect it if it didn't make me less trusting.
Especially when I owe him two favors.
"You're not going to like this." Elliott plugs the drive into my computer. Multiple windows pop up — text messages, emails, surveillance photos. "It seems Luca has run to daddy. Don Mantione's planning something big. Like, scorched earth big."
I lean forward, scanning the messages. "The Vault?"
"Yeah. Look at this." He points to a series of encrypted texts. "They've been watching your security rotations, mapping out blind spots. They're planning to hit during peak hours on Saturday."
Marco moves closer, reading over my shoulder. "Fuck."
My jaw tightens. "How many?" I ask.
"At least thirty guys. Heavy artillery." Elliott swipes through more files. "They're calling in favors from other families. Offering cuts of future profits if they help take The Vault. Mantione's betting everything on this."
"Because he's desperate," Marco mutters. "After what happened to his crew-"
"He needs a win," I finish. "Something big enough to prove he hasn't gone weak — and his son deserves his position." I study a grainy photo showing cases of weapons being loaded into unmarked vans. "When are these from?"
"Last night. They're using old school methods now — burner phones, dead drops. But they slipped up." Elliott taps the screen. "One of Mantione's guys used his personal email to coordinate with their weapons supplier. Once I was in, I found everything."
The timestamp on the latest message catches my eye. "They're meeting tonight to finalize details."
"At midnight," Elliott confirms. "Some warehouse on the south side. I've got the address."
"Then we go tonight," I say. "We show them that they cannot get ahead of us."
"You sure about this?" Marco leans against my desk, arms crossed. "We're putting a lot of pressure on them. Could push Mantione over the edge."
"What's the alternative?" I reach into my desk for my shoulder holster, slipping it on and checking the clip in my Glock. "Let them hit The Vault? Let them think they can fuck with us?"
"No, but-"
"Then we move tonight." This time, I make sure my tone brokers no argument. The leather of my holster creaks as I adjust the straps. "Get the guys ready. Full tactical gear. I want this clean and quiet."
Elliott starts packing up his equipment. "I'll keep monitoring their communications. If anything changes, you'll know immediately."
I nod, pulling on my suit jacket. The weight of the gun settles against my ribs, familiar and reassuring. But something else weighs on me — the image of Jazz behind the bar at The Vault, completely unaware of what's brewing.
She's safe there, I tell myself. The club's security is tight, and this is just an ambush. We'll handle it before it becomes a real threat.
But as I check my phone — no messages from her — an uneasy feeling crawls up my spine.
Marco must catch something in my expression. "The club's locked down tight, boss. Nothing's getting through those doors without us knowing."
"I know." I grab my keys. "Call Ray and Tony. Tell them to bring the heavy artillery. And Marco?"
He pauses at the door.
"Make sure everyone understands — we're sending a message tonight. No survivors."
The weight in my chest doesn't lift as I head for the elevator. Jazz is fine. The Vault is secure. But this gnawing feeling...
I shake it off. Focus. There's work to be done.