Chapter 3
THREE | PRESTON
The pounding of my fists against the bag is controlled. Precise. Impeccably matching the drumming of my pulse in my ears.
It satisfies me knowing that although there may be a goddamn war raging in my head, I can keep myself collected under pressure.
Nothing makes a man more vulnerable than disregarding your boundaries to submit to your rage.
Allowing your anger to take control causes you to lose sight of your objective, and I can't afford to slip into those depths. If I do, I'll never pull myself out.
It took me years the last time.
The rage poisoned me.
Altered my being until I shifted into a monster that crawled out of my flesh with the determination to gnash and tear a vile man apart with my teeth. I wanted to relish in what it would feel like to rip his organs through his esophagus and make a noose out of his intestines to rob him of breath.
That vision of him blanked my vision and weakened my resolve to be patient.
But over the years, I’ve learned that revenge isn’t impulsive.
It’s planned.
Executed with as much precision as my fists smashing into the bag in time with my dead, but somehow still beating heart.
The truth is brutal. Patient or not, nothing I do will bring them back.
It wouldn’t fill our home with laughter. It wouldn’t inject the lightheartedness back into the bones of our estate that instantly decayed and rotted the moment they were taken from us.
My father and I both died the moment our eyes locked on that box sitting outside our estate’s main gate.
When my father picked it up, a wordless conversation flowed between us in the form of my father's exhale. Somehow, we both knew. We’ve held enough body parts to recognize that the weight is unmatched.
Not even the styrofoam box, concealed behind cardboard, could erase the metallic stench and hint of cigar that stained the floral spring air.
When we finally got our wits together enough to open it, it was the first time that the sight of human organs made me release the acid searing my stomach.
For days. Until I was the shell of a man wishing that bastard would’ve had the balls to carve my father and me instead, since we were the ones he wanted.
At least, that’s what we thought.
His war was with us. Not them.
But that would’ve been too kind.
And Luciano Giovanni has never been known for having an ounce of compassion.
He rose to our level.
Wanted to play our game to destroy us and claim what’s ours in retribution for a sin that isn’t ours to bear.
The Megalley Syndicate is bound by blood, related or not. Once you pledge your loyalty, there is no escape but death. If it takes blood to get in, blood is the cost to get out.
What we do means nothing if our family isn’t by our side.
And the only reason my father and I are still breathing is to carry out the plan we’ve so carefully crafted.
To keep the heart of our operation still beating, even if we wish ours weren’t, because we failed to protect the two things more precious to us than our narcotic, illegal weapons, and money laundering operations.
Our silence for the last five years hasn’t been because we’ve given up.
Oh no.
Our strike will be violent. Bloody.
When I was younger, my mother would stroke my cheek with her fingers and speak words of admiration, telling me how proud she was that, though I was born to rule a dark world, I still had compassion.
Not a hint of that man remains.
The only thing that might give me peace at the end of this is smashing my fist through Luciano’s chest cavity to feel the final beats of his heart cease in my hand.
I might even use it like a stress ball as the healing process of losing my mother and sister finally starts after years of observing.
Surveillance. Carefully collecting any information that can give us an edge to end this once and for all and take out the leader of the Calco Cartel.
The don of the Italian Mafia, whose borders are slowly leaking across the southern states and near our territory.
Carter’s voice barely registers through the hammering pulsing through the gym. “I thought you’d be in here.”
I fight through the distraction, sinking my naked fists into the synthetic leather of the boxing bag, soaking up my aggression.
The late morning light beats down through the wall of windows facing the gardens that stretch out beyond, before it meets the rocky beach of the Atlantic Ocean.
My hot, sweaty skin and muscles are burning from the relentless heat of the sun.
Beads of sweat trickle down the valley between my pecs and along the ridges of my spine, further drenching the waistband of my gym shorts.
I observe my best friend, my right-hand man, break through the threshold of the gym in the reflection of the mirrors in front of me. He moves further into the room, watching my movements with an attentive gaze.
I’m twenty-nine. He may be three years older than I am, but we’ve been inseparable since my father saved him when he was twenty and gave him a job. A home.
He pulls his fingers through his ruffled black hair, cropped short on the sides, then tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Rowan and Cathal touched base. The shipment is thirty minutes out from the marina.”
I place my hands on my hips to rest, the inferno in my lungs raging.
My breath is rapid as I meet his dark eyes in the mirror.
“They’re late. They were supposed to arrive two days ago.
They know how I fucking feel about punctuality.
” One of the reasons I’m taking out my anger this way is to tame my inner beast that’s hungry to plant my fists through some facial bone the moment I see Rowan and Cathal to prove my point.
He swipes a tattooed hand over his nape and shrugs. “They said they had to reroute due to a tropical storm.”
I turn slowly, narrowing my eyes. “For their sake, I hope we have the AIS data to back that up and validate their course.”
Carter notices the water bottle on the floor and bends down, grasping it before he tosses it to me. “Consider it done. I’ll head to the marina now.”
I uncap the bottle, taking a long swig to quench my thirst, heaving a sigh. “Thanks. But don’t touch anything until I get there.”
It’s not Carter’s fault. He just happens to be here to witness my frustration with the situation that’s had me on edge since we lost contact with one of our commercial lobster boats.
A boat that was bringing back one of the several narcotic shipments we receive throughout the month, which arrives straight to the docks of our harbor.
Lately, I haven’t been a very trusting person. This is the third month in a row where several bags of our fentanyl and cocaine have gone “missing.” Though they may be small amounts that might slip past someone who is unobservant, I am not one of those people.
Neither is Arden, my father.
We’re thorough.
We’re also not naive enough to think they are low-balling us with the amount we are paying our cartel partner in Mexico.
There’s something else transpiring, we’re just not sure what it is yet.
However, if anything is missing from this new shipment, corrective actions will need to be taken.
And both Rowan and Cathal might find themselves at my mercy.
My blood sizzles in exhilaration just thinking about it.
It’s been a while since I’ve taken such violent measures.
It may be on a few men in my mob, but this world isn’t for the faint of heart.
If we ask questions, they should be answered promptly, and that applies to everyone.
If not, we use our favorite methods to get people to talk.
Even if it's our own people.
Carter’s eyes roam the floor before he glances back up at me. I can already see a question flickering in his gaze before he opens his mouth. “I know I’ve been taking a lot of time off, but I was wondering if next month I can take a week and a half to head back to Chicago.”
Gulping down the rest of the bottle, I place the cap on and toss it into the small trash can against the wall. “What is it now?”
I can tell from the way his mouth twists to the side that he’s being cautious about saying too much.
He knows by now the topics that send me into a depression spiral.
I’m right when he says, “My little sister is getting married.” I swallow, briefly thinking how my sister will never see that day, but I push that thought far back to the recesses of my mind.
“Her fiancé is an asshole, but I need to be there to support her. My parents would be pissed if I missed it. They already think my tech job,” he puts in air quotes, “takes me from them enough.”
I reach for my towel on the nearby bench, clearing away the thick glaze of sweat on the slopes of my neck.
“I get it. Just be back in time for the security briefing.” Arden wants to review some new protocols, since none of the recent deliveries are matching up with our agreement.
“It doesn’t seem like it's a coincidence anymore that small parts of our shipments aren’t arriving. ”
He sharply nods in agreement. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
A few beats of silence pass between us before I clear my throat. “Your sister’s fiancé may be an asshole, but I hope you enjoy every minute of it. I’ll never get to experience that.”
Something passes over his eyes, and I try to dissect the expression. It's not pity. He knows I fucking hate pity. It’s more like sympathy, but combined with something else I can’t place. After all, I didn’t just lose my sister; he lost a friend.
Carter was there for me every step of the way when it was confirmed that Tayla and my mom, Lynn, were never going to be returned to us.
Their heartbeats ceased before we could negotiate or fight to get them back—and God knows we would have burned the world for them.
But the ruthless wind rose instantly and never gave us the chance to strike the match.
Between the moment they were abducted and the morning we got that box, Luciano hadn’t even kept them alive for more than eight hours.
We knew that thanks to the photos in the box containing time stamps and brutal images of their murders as they lay bloody and lifeless on an unknown concrete floor, side by side.
I choke down the bile burning my throat. “I’m going to shower, and then I’ll meet you at the marina.”
He presses his lips in a line and says, “I’ll head there now,” leaving me alone in the gym.
Pacing over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, I glare out over the expanse of the yard till it meets the maze and garden before it drops off to the rocky beach below.
On the right side, through the towering fences, watch towers, and a half-mile expanse of forest that creeps down the hillside, lies the edge of Lachlan Park.
Usually, the impeccably mowed crisscrossed lines that meet the ten-foot-tall security fence would give me some sense of comfort, but it doesn’t come.
Until three months ago, our only worry was vengeance.
Now, with small parts of our product vanishing, I can’t help but feel as if it's going to deter us from our mission to take down Luciano.
Our operations come first, no matter how difficult that is to swallow.
My chest can only support a few feelings at a time.
Retaliation.
Resolve.
Too many distractions will make me a half-asser, and nothing irritates me more.
I’m just hoping there won't be any more.