Maximum Bet (Romano Family Mafia #3)

1. Dominic

Dominic

Beads of sweat roll down my neck as I crouch behind a crate in a decrepit warehouse. The whole place smells like fish and brine. While Atlantic Seafood moved its operations to a modernized facility years ago, remnants of the building’s history linger.

It’s the perfect place for a Mafia hit.

Or in this case, a meeting between Miami’s most notorious crime family, the Angeles de la Misericordia, and the head of the Medina Cartel out of Ensenada, Mexico.

Esteban Perez, the Medina leader, has had beef with me ever since I burned his sprawling Ensenada compound to the ground.

In my defense, he was about to sell my future wife into sex slavery.

He deserved every bit of what I doled out, and when I get close to him, I will make sure he receives a torturous death.

“Two sedans are headed through the side gates.” Leonardo’s voice crackles through my earpiece. My adviser is stationed in a surveillance van a block over, watching the building through strategically placed cameras.

“Let us know how many people get out. My intel said this meeting should only be between the heads of the organizations,” my cousin, Nico, replies.

Until recently, Nico and I had little business together, with him running the Romano family Mafia’s Chicago arm and me running the Las Vegas arm.

I guess Esteban Perez shouldn’t have made a deal to sell his product in the Windy City if he didn’t want two bosses coming after him at once.

Next to me, my brother, Marco, groans and shifts in a squat. His six-foot-four, bulky frame isn’t meant to be folded for so long. He’s got one meaty hand bracing himself against the crate, while moisture glistens on his prominent brow.

I consider pulling my gun, having it ready and aimed when Esteban and Santos, the Miami leader, appear, but that’s not what tonight is about.

As tempting as it is to take them down, guns blazing, we’re supposed to be doing reconnaissance.

If we eliminate them now, we’ll never find our real target, the leader of the Russian Bratva, Anatoliy Kozlova.

“Six all together, four coming in. Get ready.” With the information Leo relays, I tense, holding a hand out to Marco to urge him to steady his shaking frame. He slowly lowers one knee to the concrete, giving him leverage.

Across the warehouse, a slight shuffling indicates Nico receding into the shadows.

Metal hinges scream in protest as large doors swing open at the front of the building.

Voices speaking in Spanish drift through the space, echoing off the walls as the overhead lights switch on.

I crouch lower on instinct, although I am well hidden.

“Gracias por venir.” Santos speaks first, thanking his acquaintance for coming.

I brace myself, forcing my body against the solid wood of the crate, as my fury builds and every fiber of my being urges me to attack—to kill Esteban Perez.

Except the voice that answers Santos isn’t that of Perez.

A fumbling American with lousy pronunciation gives Santos a “de nada” that would have a high school Spanish teacher rolling their eyes.

I can’t help but whisper, “What the fuck?”

“Shit,” Leo says. “Hold on a second, let me switch views.”

The footsteps inside the warehouse stop, and Santos, clearly picking up on his acquaintance’s lack of Spanish knowledge, switches languages. “Would you prefer English?”

“If you don’t mind.”

I’m tempted to peer around the crate to find out who this person is. I don’t recognize the voice. He sounds young, and the slight waver in his tone indicates his inexperience.

“Mister Callahan, does your boss know you’ve come to meet with me?” Santos asks. The flick of a lighter sounds before someone inhales and exhales, taking their time with the process.

“Uh.” Callahan stalls. I rack my brain for anyone I know by that last name. The only Irish family I work with is based in Boston and run by Cillian O’Shea.

“I didn’t think so.”

More footsteps, then the sound of metal scraping across the ground.

The smoke from a cigar wafts our direction, and I take a chance, peering around the crate.

The cigar hangs from Santos’s lips as he rolls his shirt sleeves.

He’s a stout man, not one who often lifts weights or jogs.

He relies on his enforcers for physicality, one of whom stands to his left, a man who rivals Marco in size.

Leathered skin and wrinkles hint at Santos’s age. He’s weathered from years in the tropical sun. His graying hair is slicked with product, and his soft midsection reflects an overindulgence in his wife’s Cuban cooking.

“Take a seat, Mr. Callahan.”

Santos’s enforcer steps forward, shoving Callahan by the shoulder into a rusted metal chair.

From where I crouch, even I can see the shaking of Callahan’s hands.

Santos circles Callahan, pausing behind him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “From what I have heard, you are interested in running drugs through my city.”

“It’s not a b-big operation,” Callahan stutters. “Just a boat or two a month docking here. I’m not selling in Miami. I’m picking up and taking the load straight to Boston.”

Santos sneers and nods toward his enforcer. “And did you ask my permission to conduct your business here?”

Callahan stalls, eyes wide, breathing heavy. “I did not, sir. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was an issue. You have such a major presence in South Florida. I didn’t think my small-time running would make a difference.”

“No one runs through my city but me!” Santos’s arm lifts before he backhands Callahan, the man’s body jerking to the side in response.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Santos!”

“It’s too late for sorry. What do you think your boss, O’Shea, will do when he finds out about your indiscretion?” Santos returns to his spot in front of Callahan.

“You don’t have to tell him,” Callahan pleads as the enforcer binds his hands with zip ties.

Santos laughs, cigar smoke once again billowing from his direction. “Oh, but I do. He and that pandejo in Chicago are looking for any reason to start a war with me. When will they realize that drugs will make it into their cities whether I facilitate their transfer or not?”

I glance to the other side of the warehouse, where I know Nico hides in the shadows.

“I don’t want the mess.” Santos steps into view, waving away the thought. Cigar ash falls to the floor with the movement. “I’ll tell O’Shea so as not to burn bridges. After all, he might wonder why his soldier disappeared.”

Callahan chokes on a cry and tries to stand. He’s too late. His fate is already decided.

Santos’s enforcer holds him by the shoulders, forcing him into the chair as Santos shoves the lit end of his cigar against Callahan’s cheek.

The wails coming from the Boston associate echo off the walls. I’d feel sorry for him if he weren’t such an idiot.

I know what’s coming next, and with no connection to this man, I don’t care to revel in his torture. I move behind my crate and settle next to Marco with my back resting against it.

The wails of despair don’t last long as Santos and his crew end the life of the man who crossed them. Once the begging and pleading stop, a gunshot sounds, muffled by a silencer.

In Spanish, Santos commands his men to clean up the mess before leaving the scene.

A car starts outside as the enforcer and his assistants shuffle and grunt, cleaning blood from the floor and lifting the body to transport it far from the scene of the crime.

Someplace in the Everglades, if I had to guess.

Eventually, the metal hinges on the warehouse doors squeal in protest, and they slam shut.

Marco, Nico, and I remain quiet for an extended minute before Leo’s low chuckle sounds in our ears. “Well, I guess we have some blackmail on Miami now.”

“Did you get that all on video?” Nico asks, emerging from his hiding spot.

“I sure did,” Leo quips. “Perfect lighting and everything. Should have been in a Hollywood movie.”

“Send it to me,” Nico says. “I’m sure I’ll be able to use it.”

I sigh, lifting to my feet. “That’s great, but we didn’t get what we came for.”

Marco and I meet Nico in the center of the room, and we all congregate around the dilapidated chair in which a man just lost his life.

Nico grimaces. “It’s my fault.”

He runs a hand through his hair. It’s darker than mine, more raven-black than espresso-brown, the ends curling with the longer style.

Nico reminds me of a Calvin Klein model from the early two thousands.

His chiseled features and olive complexion make him look every bit the stereotypical bad boy.

He’s as tall as I am at six foot three and takes pride in his strength.

He’d be competition if we lived anywhere near each other.

“Where’d you get your intel?” I ask as the three of us make our way toward the exit.

“A mole I placed inside the Angeles De La Misericordia. He was sure tonight’s meeting was between the cartels and Santos.” Nico scoffs as Marco opens the door. “The kid’s desperate to please. He’s known to exaggerate.”

A black van pulls up as we leave the warehouse—Leo’s mode of transportation and command central.

The four of us remove our earpieces as we reconvene inside the vehicle.

“Maybe I can facilitate a meeting with Santos next weekend when he’s in Vegas for the wedding.” Leo puts the car into drive and pulls us out of the lot.

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter. With no other options, I acquiesce.

Great. Weddings and business never mix well.