Chapter 44
T he Ducati’s roar almost swallows the third ring of my phone. My hands are black with motor oil, and I wipe them on an already-stained rag before answering. The vintage bike sits half-assembled in my private garage, its chrome gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"What?"
The wrench slips from my grip and clatters against concrete. "How long ago?"
"Maybe twenty minutes. Marco saw them dump him in the harbor."
I'm already moving, grabbing my jacket from the workbench. "Send Luca and a cleanup crew. I'll be there in fifteen."
"Boss, maybe you should?—"
I end the call and stride to the Maserati. The engine roars to life. Horns blare as I thread the Maserati between lanes. Fuck them. The needle pushes past ninety. Lake Shore Drive is a blur of angry lights.
The rusted cranes of Pier 7 cut through the autumn haze. I smell it the second I kill the engine. Rotting fish, diesel, and under it all, blood.
Three of my men stand near the water's edge, their faces grim in the fading light. Marco points toward the harbor where something bobs in the dark water between two moored tugboats.
My dress shoes slip on wet concrete. I stop at the edge. It's Fabio. He’s floating face-up, wedged against a piling. The water around him is stained red, the color fading into the black of the lake.
My throat tightens. "Get him out."
Marco and another soldier climb down the rusted ladder bolted to the pier. They wade in waist-deep, the October water forcing sharp breaths through their teeth. Together they haul Fabio's waterlogged corpse to the dock's edge where willing hands pull him up.
Under the harsh security lights, the damage becomes clear.
His face is swollen beyond recognition, nose crushed, teeth missing.
I crouch beside him. His face is a wreck, but that’s not what holds my gaze.
It’s the shamrock carved into his chest. A sick, cold knot forms in my gut. They wanted me to see this.
"Third one this month." My fingers curl into fists. "Third fucking soldier with their calling card carved into him."
Romeo shifts his weight. "Boss, the dock workers said there were four of them. Finn O'Sullivan was leading."
Kieran's nephew. Of course. The old bastard sends his attack dog to leave messages written in my people's blood.
Gravel crunches behind me as more cars arrive. Luca emerges from a black SUV, his expression tight with concern. Two more vehicles follow, disgorging additional soldiers who immediately fan out to secure the perimeter.
"Pietro." Luca approaches with measured steps, his gaze taking in the scene. "We need to handle this carefully."
"Carefully?" I get to my feet, the blood pounding in my ears. "They butchered him on our pier. Carved him up like an animal."
"I understand, but?—"
"No, you don't." My voice drops to something dangerous. "This is Fabio. He's got a wife. Two kids under ten. What am I supposed to tell them? That their father died because I couldn't protect him?"
Luca's jaw tightens. "Retaliation without planning will only?—"
"Get me eyes on the O'Sullivan warehouse. The one on Western Avenue." I turn to Romeo. "How many men can you gather in the next two hours?"
"Boss," Luca steps forward, "the protocol is clear. The Don doesn't personally?—"
"The Don does whatever the fuck needs doing." I stalk toward my car. "That warehouse moves their weapons. We hit it tonight."
"Pietro, think about this." Luca follows, his voice steady but urgent. "If we move without proper intelligence, without coordination?—"
I spin to face him. "Three dead soldiers, Luca. Three. Each one a message that we're weak. That I'm weak."
"You're not Riccardo." Luca’s words cut the air between us. His face remains impassive. "You don't have to prove?—"
"You're right. I'm not my brother." The words feel like poison in my mouth. "Riccardo never would have let it get this far. But I'm what you've got, so either follow orders or find someone else to serve."
Silence stretches across the dock. Even the seagulls have gone quiet. My men watch, waiting to see if Luca will challenge me further.
He doesn't. "What do you need?"
"Surveillance on that warehouse. Guard rotations, entry points, everything." I pop the Maserati's trunk, revealing the arsenal I keep there. The Glock 19 fits perfectly in my hand, its weight familiar and comforting. "We go in four hours. Midnight."
"That's not enough time to?—"
"It's what we have." I check the magazine, counting rounds with practiced efficiency. "Romeo, get me twelve men. Body armor, automatic weapons. No rookies."
Romeo nods and pulls out his phone, already making calls.
Luca watches me load spare magazines into my jacket. "You're going personally."
It's not a question. "Problem?"
"Your father never?—"
"My father's been dead eight years." I slam the trunk closed. "And Riccardo's been gone two months. I'm not them, Luca. I handle things my way."
He wants to argue more. I can see it in the tension around his eyes. But he knows better. "I'll coordinate surveillance. But Pietro, if this goes wrong…"
"Then it goes wrong." I slide the Glock into my shoulder holster. "Better than doing nothing while they pick us off one by one."
A sheet has been draped over Fabio's body, but the blood still seeps through, staining the white fabric. Another ghost to add to my collection. Another name to carry.
The memory surfaces without warning—Pablo's face that night, confident and grinning as he took the car keys from my hand. "Go see your girl," he'd said. "I've got this shipment covered."
Six hours later, they pulled his body from a burning warehouse, three bullets in his chest and his throat cut. All because I wanted to get laid instead of doing my job.
"Boss?" Romeo's voice pulls me back. "The men are ready. They'll meet us at the staging point."
I look out across the harbor where the last traces of sunset paint the water crimson. Fitting. By morning, there'll be more blood in these waters.
"Good." I head for my car, then pause to look back at Luca. "Have someone take Fabio to his family. Make sure they're provided for. Whatever they need."
"Already arranged," Luca says quietly. "His widow will receive the standard death benefit plus a monthly?—"
"Triple it."
"Pietro—"
"Triple it." I meet his eyes. "And make sure his kids get into good schools. Private schools. They shouldn't suffer because their father worked for a Don who couldn't keep him safe."
I glance at the white sheet, at the red seeping through. Fucking useless. Three men. Three families without a father because I’m not Riccardo. I’m not the Don they deserve.
But I'm good at one thing.
Violence .
And tonight, the Irish will remember that.
I slide behind the Maserati's wheel. Through the windshield, I watch my men work with grim efficiency, preparing to transport Fabio's body. Each movement precise, respectful. They deserve better than me.
Maybe that's what I'm really hoping for tonight. Not just revenge, but resolution. A bullet with my name on it, fired by Irish hands. Pablo would call it poetic justice—saved from death once, only to chase it ever since.
My phone buzzes with a text from Romeo: "Surveillance team in position. Warehouse has six guards visible, likely more inside."
Six guards. Plus however many inside. Could be a dozen, could be twenty. Doesn't matter.
I start the engine and pull away from Pier 7, leaving the stench of death behind. The city lights blur past as I drive toward the staging point, toward whatever violence waits in that warehouse.
My hands are steady on the wheel. This is the only time they are. When blood is on the line. Mine or theirs.
Fabio Benedetti deserved better than a shamrock carved into his chest and a watery grave. His kids deserved a father who'd come home tonight.
I check the Glock's chamber one more time, the metallic click sharp in the car's interior.
The Irish want to send a message. Fine. I’ll send one back. And if a bullet finds me tonight? Good. Maybe then the debt for Pablo gets paid.
The convoy forms behind me as I pull into the staging area, black SUVs falling into line like a funeral procession. Which, if I'm honest with myself, is exactly what this might be.
FUCK.