Chapter 14
Maximo
Enzo spreads out the intel he’s gathered across the dining table so we can make plans while we eat. There are a series of photographs, floor plans, grainy surveillance shots, and printed text threads pulled from the burner phone all laid out in sharp, glossy photos.
“This is it,” Enzo says, tapping a picture of a sleek, glass-fronted club.
“Club Metron. The Bratva operate it and use it as a front for their high-end escort services. Kirill just booked the VIP section for Saturday night. He’s hosting a private gala with a guest list full of Russians.
I think it’s his way of thumbing his nose at us in our own territory. ”
“Isn’t that one of Johnny Seville’s clubs?” I ask. “My father helped him get set up in this town and as far as I know he’s always paid his tributes on time.”
“That’s right,” Enzo agrees.
“Explain to me why Seville is hosting a Bratva party.” I barely recognize my own voice, so tight with my restrained fury. How many of my people are going to betray me?
“Easy, Maximo. Seville is no fool. You’re right, he always pays on time and has been a friend to the family for years. He doesn’t make his own bookings, and he doesn’t know a Bratva from a bratwurst. If you tell Seville to shut down Saturday night and cancel the party, he’ll do it.”
That mollifies me for the moment. Of course, Enzo is right. I have to remember that most of my people are too busy running their businesses to keep up with turf wars. I think I’m still raw over Pellegrini and looking for knives aiming for my back every time I turn around.
“Kirill is getting cocky,” I mutter.
“The bastard is getting sloppy,” Constance counters, leaning over the table next to me. “Throwing a party in your backyard? He’s begging for you to do something about it.”
My gaze meets hers, and for a beat, we both understand it, that this is the opening we’ve been waiting for.
Enzo’s gaze flicks between us. “I’m thinking we keep the plan as simple as possible. We can light the place up during the party. We trip the fire alarms, smoke the place out, and wait outside for the panic in the streets. Kirill will try to run, and that’s when we take him.”
“Simple doesn’t mean clean,” I remark. “He’s going to have muscle everywhere. And if he gets wind of what we’re doing before it happens…”
“He won’t,” Enzo replies. There’s a shadow of doubt in his tone that he would die before admitting, but I catch it. We’ve been burned one too many times lately. Someone in my house is feeding the Bratva. Someone close.
The thought fucking shakes me, but I shove it aside for now.
Our mole is still out there, still too fucking close.
Constance rests her palms on the table and then taps at a printed layout of the club. “We’ll need two exit strategies—one if Kirill goes for his car in the parking deck, and one if he tries to slip out through the alley behind the club.”
Two exit strategies, but only if Kirill takes the bait. If he already knows we’re coming… no strategy will save us.
Still, I nod my agreement. “Enzo, you coordinate with your crew and only your crew without giving them details. I want our men in place, and backup vehicles ready to box him in either way. And no one talks about this plan outside this room. No one.”
The meeting breaks after an hour of contingency planning. Enzo leaves to start pulling his men together, and it’s just me and Constance sitting in the quiet of the dining room.
“You’re sure about this?” she asks.
“Sure enough.”
She tilts her head. “That’s not the same as being certain.”
I almost smirk at her. “You’ll find that I don’t get certainty about much in my line of work. Except maybe for you.”
Her golden-green eyes soften, but she covers the emotion with a scoff. “We’ve been sleeping together, Maximo. That’s not the same as…whatever you’re implying.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I stand up to move closer to her, close enough that I can see the quick rise and fall of her chest. “You think I haven’t been trying to keep it just that? I can’t. And I don’t think you can, either.”
She looks away, her jaw tight, but I see the fear, the want, the same damn inevitability chewing at me. “If we start blurring those lines, it’s going to get messy,” she remarks.
“It’s already messy,” I tell her, my voice low now. “You’re in this whether you want to be or not. Stop pretending there’s a clean way out.”
For a long moment, neither of us speak.
Finally, she says, “Fine. But if we’re doing this, taking Kirill down, then we have to do it smart. No heroics, none of that cowboy shit from the pier. I don’t want you to die for this revenge.”
I give her a small, dangerous smile. “Then we better make sure the fire burns hot enough to flush him out.”
And in my gut, deep down I know that if the mole catches even a whiff of this plan, we’ll be the ones burning.