11. Damian
11
Damian
It took everything I had to leave Alina last night when what I really wanted to do was get her naked and fuck her. I know dozens of gorgeous women. Sexy, smart, luscious women. But from the second I first saw Alina Madsen, she’s the only one I want.
I exhale sharply. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Thinking about Alina brings me back to what she revealed: that piece of shit Enzo Bianchi took her to La Vecchia, a restaurant owned by the Ivanovs.
My phone buzzes. “Markus,” I say. “I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon. You have my money already?”
“I have information,” Markus says. He sounds nervous, twitchy.
I wait, but he offers nothing more. “And what will this information cost me?” I ask, expecting he’ll ask for more time.
He clears his throat. “Information in return and a favor.”
“I see. A two for one deal. Why don’t you share first so I can determine the value of your information?”
“Narcotics. Heroin, to be precise,” he says. “Emanuel Gallo decided he could make some cash on the side. He has a connection with the Mexicans, a guy he grew up with. Decided it would be a good idea to distribute for them. He’s been at it for at least three months.”
I had every confidence that I would find out the reason Mikhail sent Nikolai to confront my brother at the diner, but I hadn’t expected Markus to be the source. Nor had I expected that one of our men would deal narcotics. But neither of those things truly surprise me. Markus is very good at finding out information. He’s done several jobs for the family that required that exact skill set. As for the narcotics, greed can make men do stupid things. Especially men like Emanuel Gallo who has strayed from the path twice before.
“Thank you,” I say. “And what information would you like in return?”
“My sister. Is she okay?”
“She is more than okay. She is currently living a life of pampered luxury.”
“You haven’t hurt her?”
Annoyance curls through me. Where was Markus when Enzo was hurting her? My tone is clipped when I reply, “I have not.”
He exhales. “Good. Great. Thank you.”
Again, silence.
“Why did you let her date Bianchi?” I ask.
“What?” Markus sounds confused.
“Enzo Bianchi. Why did you let your sister date him?”
“Let my sister…?” Markus makes a choked sound. “Have you met Alina? She’s perfectly capable of deciding who she wants to date. I don’t tell her what to do. As for Bianchi, what the fuck are you talking about? My sister dated that piece of shit?”
And there’s my answer. Markus didn’t protect Alina because he hadn’t even known she was dating Bianchi. The part of me that lives in the modern world understands that Alina has no obligation to clear the men she dates with her brother. The part of me that lives the life I live, does the things I do, is furious that she was left unprotected.
“She met him at a party you took her to.”
“I was there looking for the information you asked for about Vlasta’s death,” Markus says. “Fuck. I had no idea Alina met Bianchi there.”
“I want to find him,” I say.
Markus knows better than to ask any questions. “I’ll ask around,” he says.
“And the favor?” I prod.
“Let Alina go. I’ll get you everything I owe you. I’ll figure it out. Just don’t do anything to her. Let her go. She isn’t involved in any of this.”
Let her go? Just the thought makes a cold rage spread through my veins. Alina is a key to my revenge. For all I know, she hasn’t told me everything. She could be hiding information or she might not even realize she knows something of value.
But it’s more than that. Letting her go could put her in the way of harm, and that is something I cannot accept. Enzo Bianchi is still out there. He could go after Alina, hurt her, kill her to keep her quiet. The thought of Alina being outside the sphere of my protection curdles my gut.
She isn’t going anywhere. She is mine. Mine to care for, to protect. Mine to keep.
Care for? Protect? Where the fuck did those thoughts come from?
She’s my fucking prisoner, my collateral.
“Favor denied.” I end the call.
“I double checked. Chen’s is definitely still Triad owned. I’m surprised Bianchi went there, but he could have been an emissary,” Luca says late that afternoon as we drive through the North Las Vegas mecca of industrial parks and warehouses. My father foresaw the growth of Vegas as a player in the warehousing and distribution industry and invested accordingly. It’s one of our legal businesses, along with restaurants, bars, and a couple of car washes. They dovetail nicely with our less than legal businesses, offering ideal means of laundering large sums of cash.
“And both LED and La Vecchia are Ivanov owned,” I say. “Which ties Bianchi to Mikhail.”
“We know Mikhail ordered the hit on your father,” Luca says, his tone laced with suppressed rage.
“Knowing and proving are two different things. If we’re going to start a war, we need proof,” I say as we pull into a parking lot. There are three other cars here. I recognize all of them.
“Let’s hope Alina can provide the proof,” Luca says. “You want me to lean on her?”
The thought of anyone leaning on Alina, threatening her, hurting her, makes anger roil inside me. I cut Luca a warning glance. “Whatever information she has will be shared with me and me alone. No one touches her.”
Luca grins. “You been hit by the thunderbolt?”
“The what?”
“The Godfather. Michael Corleone. He got hit by the thunderbolt. Love at first sight.”
“You watch too many movies.” I glower at him. “And who the fuck said anything about love?”
“Actually, I read the book,” Luca says with a laugh.
Of course he did.
I exit the car and stride into the warehouse followed by the sound of Luca’s laughter. I love the fucker like a brother, but right now I wouldn’t mind planting my fist in his face.
The inside of the warehouse is quiet. Late afternoon sunlight filters in through grimy windows set high in the walls, cutting pale lines across the concrete floor. Stacks of crates tower overhead, creating narrow aisles. The place smells of dust and damp and concrete and oil.
Four of our men stand to one side. Frank, a guy around my father’s age, detaches from the group and walks toward me.
“Markus’ information checks out,” he says.
“Shit. So this is what had Nikolai’s panties in a wad,” Luca mutters.
“Justifiably so,” I say, tamping down my fury.
Markus told the truth. One of our men has been dealing heroine. Decades ago, when my father became boss, he put a ban on trafficking narcotics. Any of our people who broke that rule would be killed.
Maybe Papa had scruples. I doubt it. I asked him once, and he said it was because the jail terms for narcotics trafficking were too long. He didn’t want to do without valuable men for that length of time if someone got caught. He also said that faced with such a lengthy prison term some men might be tempted to share secrets they had no business sharing in exchange for a lighter sentence.
Two months ago when Leo took over, he made it clear that Papa’s rules still apply. Too much risk for too little reward. We don’t traffic in narcotics. We leave that lucrative avenue open for others. Like the Ivanovs.
Now, it seems that Emanuel Gallo branched out on his own, getting involved with the Mexicans, not only breaking the rule, and in doing so, making a statement about his disrespect for the family, but also pissing off a rival organization at a time when Leo hasn’t yet cemented his power.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Back room.” Frank juts his chin toward the back of the warehouse. “You know this isn’t the first time he’s stepped out of line.”
“I know. But it will be the last,” I say. My father dealt with Emanuel twice before, showed him leniency because of his longstanding friendship with Emanuel’s dead father. Now both fathers are gone and only the sons are left. Leo has no such friendship with Emanuel.
“You want me to take care of it for you?” Luca asks.
I shake my head. “I’ll do it.”
Together, we go into the back room where I find Emanuel sitting on a metal chair, hands tied behind his back. He has a black eye and a split lip, telling me he didn’t come quietly.
I lean down in front of Emanuel, looking him in the eye. I don’t ask for an explanation or an apology. I just wait for him to speak.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Damian,” he says, his eyes wild.
“Only because you got caught,” I say. He glares at me in silence. “You’ve been building a little drug empire for yourself for months, haven’t you Emanuel?”
I hold his gaze. “The first time you betrayed the family, skimmed money from collections, my father forgave you—”
“He had three guys beat the shit out of me,” Emanuel interrupts.
“He forgave you,” I continue as if he hadn’t spoken, my voice low and calm. “The second time you got sticky fingers and betrayed the family, my father forgave you again—”
“He cut off my little finger,” Emanuel cries, jerking against his bonds.
“This is the third time, Emanuel. There is no forgiveness.” I strip off my jacket and hand it to Luca.
I could just kill him, neat and quick, but I need to make an example. My father was boss for decades. He had a reputation and respect. No one accused him of weakness, even when he offered mercy. But Leo hasn’t been boss long enough. If he shows even a whisper of anything that could be construed as weakness, the vultures will come to feed.
What I do here will help cement Leo’s reputation. It will determine how the loyalty of all those under my brother’s command will be maintained.
Emanuel will die here today. But first, he needs to pay in blood for the disrespect and betrayal. I could beat him senseless while he’s tied to the chair. But that isn’t my way. I’ll let him use his fists as I use mine.
At my signal, Frank drags Emanuel to his feet and cuts the rope binding his hands. He’s built low and square, a few inches shorter than me and a hell of a lot wider. His legs are thick, as are his arms. And he knows how to use the fists he clenches at his sides.
He shifts foot to foot, sweat beading on his forehead. He doesn’t beg for mercy. He knows none will be forthcoming. But from the expression on his face, I think he believes he can still walk away. Take me down and walk away. He is a fool.
He circles me slowly. I turn to watch him as he moves, my eyes on his.
With a hiss, he lunges forward, fists swinging, head down. Brute force. No finesse. I deke right, a rush of air passing my left ear as Emanuel swings and misses. I counter with a swift jab to his midsection. He grunts, cursing as he staggers back.
We circle again.
No one speaks. The only sounds are the rasp of our breathing and the steady hum of a fan somewhere in the distance.
He comes at me again, a right hook. I block, his fist glancing off my forearm. I feel the blow echo through the bone. My uppercut catches his jaw. His head jerks back, a spray of blood and saliva arcing through the air. He shakes his head, dazed for an instant. Then, with a roar, he tackles me. We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and fists. Adrenaline courses through me, my heart pounding, my focus a red haze as I punch again and again.
When I’m done, Emanuel lies on the ground moaning. My eye is swelling and my cheek burns. I stagger to my feet, breathing hard, blood and sweat streaming into my eyes.
Luca hands me my weapon.
The adrenaline of the fight still pours through me, making my skin feel tight.
Emanuel pushes up on his feet, one hand on the wall for balance. “Please,” he begs. “Please.”
My gaze meets his and I pull the trigger. One. Twice.
His body jerks. I’m already turning away before he hits the ground.