Chapter 5
Raffaele
As soon as we’re outside, I make my way to my car and lean against it while lighting a cigar. The first draw fills my mouth with rich smoke that tastes like satisfaction. Another debt collected, another message sent.
In Cleveland, the Russo name doesn’t just command respect—it demands it. And those who forget that simple fact end up like Joe Carr, bleeding out on expensive carpet, counting the cost of their stupidity in pints of blood and shattered bone.
Ian and Colin have both followed me, standing nearby.
“Any update on the Brewer situation?” I ask, tapping ash onto the frozen asphalt.
Colin shifts his weight. “Derek and Wes have been watching the bakery and the woman. Said they made contact earlier tonight.”
My interest sharpens. “Contact? How?”
“Just surveillance,” Ian clarifies quickly. “Checking the location, confirming occupancy.”
I take another pull from my cigar, letting the smoke curl from my lips into the night air. “Call them and put it on speaker.”
Ian nods, pulling out his phone and dialing. The line rings twice before Derek’s gruff voice answers.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Ian. You’re on speaker with Mr. Russo.” Ian’s tone changes subtly, formality creeping in to signal to Derek that he’d better mind his manners.
There’s a pause, then Derek’s voice again, more respectful now. “Mr. Russo. What can I do for you?”
“I want a report on the Brewer stakeout,” I say simply, watching the smoke from my cigar dissipate in the frigid air.
“We scoped out the bakery like we were told,” Derek says. “Place was closed, and it didn’t look like anyone was home at first—”
“At first?” Colin cuts in.
Derek swallows audibly. “Yeah, man. The, uhh… the fat one—”
“Her name is Alina,” I interrupt, an icy edge in my voice that makes both Ian and Colin glance at me. “You’d be wise to use it.”
“Right, sorry,” Derek stammers. “Alina. She spotted us looking through the window. Came over and asked what we wanted.”
“And?” I demand. Fabric rustles and something’s being whispered on Derek’s end, too low for me to hear. “I feel like I should warn you. I’m not feeling very patient tonight.”
It takes a couple of seconds, but then Wes joins the conversation.
“Yeah. Uhh, hi, boss. It’s me, Wes.” I roll my eyes but remain silent.
Bumbling words like that don’t deserve to be acknowledged.
“Right, so she came home. She saw us. But we just said we were looking. And then we asked who lived upstairs.”
I exhale slowly, irritation building. “Idiota,” I mutter, the Italian slipping out before I can stop it. Idiot. “You let her see you?”
“We were just doing surveillance,” Wes defends. “She came back from the funeral and caught us looking. No big deal.”
The image of Alina in funeral clothes confronting my men sends a dark surge through me. I’m fucking impressed. And intrigued.
“Did you touch her?” I ask, my voice dropping dangerously low.
There’s a pause that lasts a beat too long.
“Did. You. Put. Your. Fucking. Hands. On. Her?” I grind out, my patience no longer existing.
Derek exhales slowly. “Just a little push,” he admits. “Nothing serious. She fell in some snow, that’s all.”
The cigar snaps between my fingers before I realize I’ve clenched my fist. Burning tobacco falls to the ground, and I stamp it out with more force than necessary.
“You’re on thin ice,” I tell them, my voice deadly calm. “That woman is collateral for a substantial debt. She is not to be touched.”
“She’s fine,” Wes insists, though his voice has lost its earlier confidence. “Just a bit wet from the snow.”
Images flash through my mind; Alina falling, her body hitting the cold ground, snow seeping through her clothes. My jaw tightens as I picture her curves, the softness Derek so crudely described as ‘fat’.
I saw her today at the funeral. Her body is fucking spectacular.
All natural curves, generous breasts, round hips, and an ass that could bring even a holy man to his knees.
She has exactly the kind of body that would fill a man’s hands perfectly.
The kind of softness a man could sink into after violence, after shedding blood.
Not to mention the contrasting edge. While her posture made her look like she was trying to make herself smaller, her pale blue eyes and red hair did the opposite. Those things screamed, ‘notice me’.
“Okay,” I say, forcing my voice to sound agreeable. “I have another assignment for you two. So meet me at the butcher house in an hour.”
Ian ends the call and slips his phone back into his pocket.
I glance at him and Colin. “Let’s go.”
Neither of them wastes time asking questions. They head for their car while I get into the Maserati and start the engine.
A moment later their headlights fall in behind me as we pull out onto the street.
Cleveland is quiet at this hour; the frozen pavement reflecting the dull glow of streetlights as we cut through the city toward the industrial district.
Within half an hour, the familiar brick building comes into view between an abandoned warehouse and a shuttered meat-processing plant. Driving around the back, I park and walk inside. Colin and Ian join me only seconds later, both of them already flicking the red lights mounted beside the door.
The overhead fluorescents sputter to life one by one as we move deeper inside, casting a dull glow over cracked tiles and stainless-steel tables that haven’t seen legitimate use in years.
The place still carries the faint scent of bleach and old meat, the kind that clings stubbornly to the walls no matter how many times the place has been scrubbed down.
Rust stains the floor drains that run along the center of the room. A row of heavy hooks hangs from a rail bolted into the ceiling, their shadows stretching long and crooked across the walls whenever the lights flicker.
Nothing about the building looks impressive, but that was never the point.
Toward the back, the walk-in freezer hums steadily to itself, the thick metal door beaded with frost along the seams. The compressor kicks on with a low mechanical growl that echoes faintly through the empty space.
I step over and pull the handle.
The seal releases with a dull crack before the heavy door swings open, a breath of colder air rolling out to meet me. The inside light flickers on automatically, revealing the narrow room beyond.
Rows of steel rails run along the ceiling, lined with thick butcher hooks that hang at different heights. Most of them are empty now, swaying slightly as the cold air shifts, but a few still hold plastic-wrapped sides of beef, their shapes pale beneath the frost.
The tiled floor slopes gently toward a grated drain, dark with age. A long stainless-steel table sits against one wall, its surface scarred with deep knife marks from another life this place once had.
The temperature bites immediately, sharp and clean in a way that burns the lungs if you breathe too deeply. Fucking perfect. Before leaving, I check that the temperature is still at 10 degrees Fahrenheit, which it is.
“Which one of you corrected the temperature?” I ask as I walk back out.
The door swings shut behind me. The heavy latch catches with a solid metallic thud as the compressor rumbles back into its steady rhythm.
“That was me,” Colin replies.
Nodding, I slap his shoulder. “Good job.”
The last time I took someone here, I lowered the temperature incrementally, but I never remember to readjust it when I’m done.
“I activated the camera,” Ian says from the corner.
I glance over as the small monitor mounted beside the worktable flickers to life. The image sharpens into the stark interior of the freezer. A tiny speaker crackles softly as the audio feed opens.
The three of us watch the empty room in silence.
When I hear a car pulling up, I give Colin and Ian the first sincere smile I’ve felt in six months. “Show time.”
“Wait,” Colin grunts. “Are you going for the kill here? Or just teaching them a lesson?”
My lips twitch with amusement at the question. “We’ll see,” I muse.
I already know I won’t kill them. Despite what Wes and Derek did to my collateral, they’re good to keep around. Usually, they follow orders to the letter. And I suppose, if I’m being completely fair, no one told them not to hurt Alina.
Then again, as a debt collector, I shouldn’t have to fucking tell my men not to put their hands on what’s mine.
The side door groans open a minute later, the sound echoing faintly through the butcher house. Boots scrape across the concrete floor as Wes and Derek step inside, bringing the night air with them.
Wes rubs his hands together. “Jesus, this place smells like a morgue.”
“Quit whining,” Derek mutters, scanning the room. “Boss said meet him here.”
I step forward from the far side of the workbench.
Both men stiffen when they see me.
“Mr. Russo,” Derek says quickly, straightening a little as if he’s suddenly remembered how to stand properly.
Wes nods once beside him. “Boss.”
For a moment I just look at them, letting the silence stretch long enough to let dread settle in.
“You two have an interesting way of conducting surveillance,” I say calmly.
Derek’s brow furrows. “Surveillance?”
“At the bakery,” I clarify.
Understanding flickers across both their faces at the same time.
Wes shifts his weight. “We were just checking the place like we were told—”
“And you pushed her,” I finish for him.
The room goes still as neither man answers me. Well, since there’s nothing more to be said, I nod at Ian and Colin, who are hidden in the shadows as they lean against the far wall.
It happens so fast neither Wes nor Derek even realizes what’s happening until hands clamp down on them.
“What the—”
Colin grabs Derek by the collar and wrenches his arms behind his back while Ian drives Wes forward with a brutal shove.
“Move,” Ian growls.
“Boss, wait…” Derek starts.
While Ian and Colin drag them across the room, I walk around them and beat them to the freezer door, which I open for them. Cold air spills out in a sharp breath.
“Wait… wait… I said fucking wait,” Wes barks, panic finally breaking through.
Ian shoves him hard between the shoulders, sending him stumbling across the frozen tiles. Derek follows a second later when Colin throws him through the doorway.
Then I slam the heavy door shut; the latch drops with a thick metallic clack.
“Set the timer for nine minutes,” I tell Ian.
The monitor flickers with movement as the camera inside the freezer comes alive with the two men scrambling to their feet, their breath already fogging the air. They’re both shouting curses as though they’ll be set free if they guess the right one.
“Now that I have your attention,” I drawl into the microphone. “Let’s go over what happens when you forget the rules for working for me.”
“I wouldn’t breathe too deeply if I were you,” Ian interjects.
“Fuck no,” Colin agrees. “Gotta take care of those precious lungs since you’re also smokers.”
Shaking my head, I carry on. “When you’re sent on surveillance for me, it’s always hands off unless you’re told differently. Nod if you understand.”
They both nod eagerly.
“Good. Now, what made you think you had the right to put your hands on something that belongs to me?” I ask, my voice turning sharp.
“P-please,” Derek begs, his teeth already chattering.
Wes wraps his arms around himself. “She wasn’t h-hurt,” he insists.
Even though they can’t see me, I nod. “Okay. Let’s say she catches pneumonia and dies…”
I’m distracted when Colin guffaws. “Yeah, because that often happens.” When I glare at him, he averts his gaze. “But that’s not the point. Nope. I’m just here to listen.”
“Or even just become sick. Wouldn’t you say a sick asset is worth less than a healthy one?”
“Y-yes,” both men stammer.
“Good,” I say pleasantly.
I continue to tear into them, purposefully giving them no reason to believe this ends well. And I don’t stop until Ian’s timer goes off.
“So, what’s the verdict?” he asks.
I switch the security system off and head toward the door. “Let them out,” I call over my shoulder. “But get someone else to watch over the Brewer building. If those two fuckers come even within a mile radius, I want them right back here for good.”
“You got it,” Ian confirms.
“Boss, do we give them any—”
“No,” I interrupt, already knowing what he’s asking. “They can warm each other up if it’s that bad. Actually, make them walk out of here fucking naked.”