Power & Punishment (The Gilded Underworld #1)

Chapter 1

MIA

“Why can’t they ever find a dead body close to a good coffee shop?” my partner whines, cringing at the black sludge floating in his Styrofoam cup.

“I don’t know.” I shrug, ducking under the bright yellow police tape. “When we find the murderer, you can ask them.”

Keith scoffs at my no-nonsense answer like he typically does. A year of working together and he still treats every crime scene like a field trip while I’m forced to drag him back to reality.

Before we spot the body, our overeager medical examiner stops us.

“Morning, Mia. Keith,” she says with a light blush coating the apples of her cheeks.

Katy has been fawning over Keith for months now, but he’s oblivious like most men are.

I do find it odd how she can blush after seeing someone’s remains sprinkled across the cement.

Then again, it takes a certain kind of person to have the stomach for this work.

“Good morning, Katy,” I say, pulling on my rubber gloves. “What do you have for us?”

“It’s an odd one,” she says, leading us toward the dead body. “Single gunshot to the optical region with a clean entry wound, but we’re unable to find any blood spatter. Based on lividity, I’d place time of death between midnight and two a.m.”

“So, the body was moved?” I ask, eyeing the lifeless blob laying in the alley.

The putrid smell of day-old garbage wafts around us, mixing with the other wonderful scents of the Lower East Side.

After a while, everything melts together, and I forget what it felt like to inhale the smell of a dead body for the first time. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

“That’s my assumption.” Katy nods, kneeling next to the man and tilting his head toward us. “Here’s his wallet.”

Her hand hovers mid-air as she attempts to pass me the piece of leather.

I don’t take it from her because I already know who the victim is.

Even after years of missed birthdays and ignored calls that went straight to voicemail, he still looks the same way he did when I moved out of his house at thirteen.

“You okay, Esposito?” Keith asks, reaching around me to grab the wallet.

A sickening chill wraps around my body as I stare at my older brother’s corpse. The alley transforms, a foggy haze blindingly betrays my vision. For a second, I’m back in that parking lot watching a red, sticky river soak the concrete around my father’s lifeless body.

I screamed.

But nobody came.

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat and shaking any lingering shock off my face. “Sorry, I thought it was someone I knew.”

My partner’s eyes stick to the side of my face. It’s pretty hard to bullshit a detective, but I’ve gotten good at lying over the last eight years. As far as he knows, both of my parents are dead, I am an only child, and I have no other close relatives.

Keith’s throat constricts, and for a second I think he’ll push for more, but thankfully he drops it and opens the wallet. “Vincent Russo. Age thirty-six from Brooklyn,” he says, pulling out my brother’s driver’s license.

I bend down, trying to stop my knees from shaking. If anyone suspects I have a connection to this person, the case will be ripped away from me.

But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

I left my life behind because of the exact reason why my brother is lying lifeless on the asphalt. Everything ends the same way where we’re from.

“This isn’t the murder scene,” I observe, confirming Katy’s suspicion. “I’m assuming the uniforms didn’t find a bullet or a murder weapon.”

“Nope,” Katy says, crouching down beside me. “Once I get him back to the lab, I can try to determine the caliber and type of bullet.”

“Good,” I say, my eyes locked with the tattoo on the back of my brother’s hand. It was more of a brand, though. It showed exactly who owned you. “That tattoo is a Caruso mark.”

“You think this is gang-related?” Keith asks, peering over my shoulder.

“We won’t know until we find the primary crime scene,” I say, but I know I’m right. My other brother has one too. “Can you get a hold of your buddy in organized crime to see if he’s heard anything? We might be able to get a lead that way. And ask him if he knows the victim.”

There’s a good chance he does. The last I knew, Vince was still working for the Carusos. After Dad died, he sold his soul to them for extra protection. I guess it didn’t get him very far in the end. But unlike our father’s death, I might be able to find out who did this.

I smother that tiny sliver of hope before it gets too bright. I can’t get pulled back into all the suffocating grief again. Maybe that’s why I don’t have trouble looking at my brother’s body and keeping my emotions under control. Or maybe there’s something much worse wrong with me.

“Yeah, I’ll call Dave. He owes me one for helping him with a sting when I was still a rookie.” He turns around, reaching for his phone and heading off to a quiet place to make a call.

Katy stands up, staring after him with those big puppy dog eyes before clearing her throat. “I noticed some dried residue on his right cuff. It could be paint or maybe blood. I’ll run trace samples.”

I nod, uncurling my body from its crouched position.

I find one of the many uniforms floating around and pull them to the side.

“Can you check CCTV along Canal and Rivington? If he was moved, we’ll see the pickup.

If we’re dealing with a rival gang, they’ll cover their tracks, so look for any small details you can and flag anything that seems off. ”

“Sure thing, Esposito,” the uniform says, using the last name Vince helped me legally change when he shipped me off to Boston to live with a family friend I barely knew.

At some point, Keith rejoins us.

“Let’s do a witness canvas too. Anyone with a dashcam or Ring doorbell could be helpful,” he adds before sending the uniform on their way. Then he turns back to me with deep concern fissuring across his forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay, Esposito? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I want to laugh off the accusation, but seeing Vince like that has me rattled. It feels like that night all over again. But I can’t tell Keith that. All I can offer him is a weak smile and a lame excuse. “I didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m just feeling a little off. I’ll be fine though.”

Keith nods his head slowly, gnawing on his lower lip in deliberation. “Okay,” he says, beginning to turn away, but before he goes too far he stops and says, “I know you’re lying and I’m going to drop it for now, but just know I won’t judge you if you want to turn down the case.”

“I know,” I breathe. “Thanks, Richards.”

He gives me one more affirming nod, and then I turn back to my brother. Katy has dispersed and is talking to one of her colleagues near the van, so I’m alone.

I crouch back down beside him, playing it off as a dutiful detective.

My eyes dance over a face that feels familiar but not at the same time.

He still has the scar near his left eyebrow from a bar fight when he first joined the outfit.

I remember how angry my dad was, but he still helped clean his wound.

My hand ghosts over the Caruso mark on his right hand. It’s an outline of a rose that curls between his pointer finger and thumb. Anyone else would just see a delicate tattoo on a sharp-edged man. All I see is the mark of death.

Beside his hand, my eyes catch on the shiny wrapper of a crumpled-up pack of cigarettes, and there’s a faded piece of paper inside his pocket.

I pull it free to find it’s a valet ticket for Ristorante Ottaviani.

There’s also a timestamp for 10:57 p.m. last night, which can help us narrow down his time of death and maybe even retrace his steps.

The one thing that stumps me is the make and model of the vehicle. There’s no way my brother could afford an Aston Martin…unless he stole it.

“Hey, Richie,” I say, calling over another one of the uniforms. “Can you sweep this for any prints?”

He nods, taking the ticket from me and placing it in an evidence bag.

“My buddy just got back to me,” Keith says, appearing out of nowhere.

“He says there was talk last week about a shipment gone bad. Says it was someone from Caruso’s crew running their mouth about it down at the local club he patrols.

He said he’ll do some more digging to see if he can get us anything more concrete. ”

“Shipments,” I repeat, letting my vision settle on the dingy brick wall surrounding us. “I was able to find a valet ticket on him from last night. How do you feel about Italian for lunch?”

Keith arches a brow, waiting for me to explain more.

“Yeah,” I say, rising to my feet and hearing the lovely click of both of my knees.

“Looks like he was at Ristorante Ottaviani last night. It’s in Caruso’s domain so I’m not hopeful they’ll talk, but it’s worth a shot.

I also have one of the boys sweeping the ticket for prints, but we might have better luck finding out who owns the car. ”

“It wasn’t his car?”

“I know their line of work pays well, but this guy seems like more of an errand boy to me,” I observe, hoping I’m right and he didn’t drag our family deeper into the dirt. “There’s no way he could afford an Aston Martin.”

Keith nods, putting his hands on his hips. “True. Well, let’s hope lunch comes with answers.”

“And worst-case scenario we get a meal on the precinct’s dime,” I justify, forcing a smile.

He huffs out a weak laugh, making a beeline for his car parked at the end of the alley.

I start to follow but freeze in place, forcing myself to take one last look at Vince.

The carving in his hand glares back at me, causing a numb curtain to slip over my shoulders.

If Vince is dead because of a shipment gone wrong, then it’s only a matter of time before my other brother is on the chopping block.

I need to see Dante.

Ice trickles down my spine and a burning question floats around in my mind. If someone moved Vince’s body, then why here? Why my territory?

Maybe they did it on purpose. And maybe it wasn’t the killer, but someone who wants the answers I never got.

I square my shoulders, attempting to bury the blistering thought as I trail after Keith.

“Espositio!” Keith calls out, swinging his keys in the air. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” I yell after him, speeding up my pace.

The last time I saw a Russo man dead on the pavement, I was twelve years old, and my brothers were too scared to do anything about it.

I’m not twelve anymore and I’ve spent the last decade and a half making sure I’d be ready when it happened again.