38. Lorenzo #2
Dante raises his gun a few inches.
Francesco stills.
“You kill me out there, and by sunset, la familia starts asking questions.”
“Your family started answering mine before noon.”
His eyes narrow.
I take out my phone and open the message Hugo sent me twenty minutes ago.
A photo fills the screen.
I turn it toward Francesco.
His underboss sits at a table in a private room across from Hugo.
No bruises. No guns on the table. No threats.
Just documents, a pen, and a man finally looking at the future instead of the past.
Francesco stares at the photograph.
His expression barely changes.
But I catch the pause.
The extra second.
The way his eyes stay on the image longer than they should.
“That means nothing,” he says.
I slide to the next photograph.
Then the next.
Different faces.
Different rooms.
Men who have carried his orders for years.
Capos.
Earners.
People who once swore loyalty to him.
Now sitting across from lawyers, accountants, and intermediaries.
Talking.
The smile leaves his face.
“Hugo has been busy,” I say.
Francesco says nothing.
“He started the paperwork three days ago.”
His eyes return to mine.
“What paperwork?”
“The paperwork that takes your ports away from you.”
Concern touches his face.
Not fear.
Not yet.
“You don’t have the cash reserves you used to,” I continue. “Not after the first attack. Not after the men you paid off. Not after the shipments you lost trying to come after me.”
His jaw tightens.
“You’re bluffing.”
“No.”
I hold up the phone.
“Your debts are real. Your creditors know it. The banks know it. The companies hiding your ownership know it. Hugo simply gave them a reason to move faster.”
I swipe to another image.
One of Francesco’s shipping managers entering a meeting room.
Another leaving.
A third signing documents.
“Men become practical when they believe the future is changing.”
His breathing slows with effort.
Trying not to show me too much.
I see it anyway.
“Those men don’t matter.”
I almost laugh.
“They matter enough that you spent years paying them.”
He looks away.
Only for a moment.
It tells me more than words.
“Some have agreed to stand down,” I say. “Some have agreed to cooperate. Some have agreed to stay exactly where they are and keep collecting paychecks.”
His eyes narrow.
“You bought them.”
“No.”
I shake my head.
“You taught them to leave.”
The silence that follows is worth more than a confession.
“Your people have watched you spend money on yourself while asking them for patience. They watched you start wars that benefited no one but you. They buried friends because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
His nostrils flare.
“They were loyal.”
“Some were.”
I lean closer.
“Some still are.”
Not every man can be bought.
Not every man should be trusted.
“And that’s the funny part, Francesco.”
I slip the phone back into my pocket.
“I don’t even want most of them.”
His brow furrows.
“I know what happens when men betray one Don for another. If they sell you out for a better offer today, they’ll sell me out tomorrow.”
The truth hits harder than a threat.
“I don’t need them forever,” I continue. “I only need them long enough to help bury you.”
His face hardens.
But the damage is already done.
He knows.
Even if he never walks out of this place, his organisation will not walk out with him.
His ports are slipping away.
His money is disappearing.
His underbosses are making arrangements.
His captains are choosing sides.
And the worst part is not that he is going to die.
It is that he will know all of it before he does.
I hold his gaze.
“You came here thinking you were taking my life.”
My voice stays level.
“Instead, you handed me yours.”
The van slows and passes through a gate.
Metal scrapes behind us as it closes.
The SUV pulls in after us.
Then the rented sedan.
All three vehicles stop beneath the covered side entrance of an old meat warehouse near the river.
The place still feels like a graveyard, even after all these years.
My father bought it under a dead company name.
No records lead to us.
No neighbours.
No security except mine.
Dante opens the doors.
Cold air enters the van.
Camron begins to shake.
He knows.
Francesco climbs out first because Alessio makes him. He lands on his feet and straightens his coat with tied hands, pretending dignity has not already left him.
Camron has to be dragged out.
His shoes scrape over wet gravel.
“Please,” he says.
No one answers.
Inside, the lights are already on.
White tubes buzz overhead. The floor has been washed. A drain sits in the centre. Two plastic sheets cover the far corner. A steel chair waits near the wall.
Francesco looks around once.
Then he looks at me.
“This is where you bring traitors?”
“No.”
I remove my gloves and hand them to Mateo.
“This is where I bring men I don’t want found.”
Camron makes a low sound.
Gianni pushes him to his knees near the drain.
Francesco watches.
He stops talking.
I walk to Camron.
He tilts his head back. Tears streak his face.
“Don Lorenzo?—”
“You lost that privilege.”
His mouth trembles.
“Lorenzo. Please.”
I crouch in front of him.
His eyes are red. His lips are cracked. A piece of hotel paper still clings to his trouser leg from the room upstairs.
“For years, you stood beside me in rooms where other men had to ask permission to breathe.”
He nods quickly. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“You ate with my men and carried my product.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my routes and who guarded my doors.”
His face crumples.
“You knew enough to hurt me.”
“I didn’t mean?—”
I raise one hand.
He stops.
“Do not insult me at the end.”
His shoulders shake.
“I was afraid.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were replacing me.”
“I know.”
“I needed a way out.”
“You chose him.”
Camron looks at Francesco.
Francesco says nothing.
Camron lets out a broken laugh through his tears.
“He never planned to help me.”
“No.”
I stand.
Camron’s eyes widen.
“No. No, wait. Please wait.”
I step back.
Gianni draws his gun.
Camron twists toward me, fighting the hands on his shoulders.
“I can still work. I can give you names. I can give you everything. I’ll disappear after. I swear.”
“You already gave me enough.”
The words land.
His begging stops.
He understands then.
Not all at once.
Piece by piece.
His mouth opens, but the sound dies before it reaches the air.
I nod once.
Gianni fires.
Camron drops forward.
His body hits the wet floor.
Francesco watches him fall.
One of my men drags Camron aside and covers him.