Chapter 43
The next day…
“Tonight,” the woman on the other end of the line says.
Tonight. My fingers tighten around the phone.
Tonight, Carlos takes his last breath. Killing that monster will be the first step in the much larger game for me, taking my rightful spot.
It will tell the world that nobody messes with Raffael DeSantis.
I will take my revenge for him splitting my face open, and it will be payback for what he did to Sophia.
“Thank you, Oksana. I owe you one.”
“More than one,” she chuckles, and hangs up.
She’s right. For years, Oksana—sister of Grigori Arsenyev, Pakhan of the Bratva in this city—has been my… friend, for lack of a better word. As much as you can call someone raised by a psychopath and carved in his image a friend.
We met about five years ago, both hunting the same ghost. Nestor had sent me to track down a hacker who’d siphoned data out of one of Carlos’s money-laundering shells. Turned out the Bratva was after him, too. Oksana.
We crossed paths online first—two predators stalking the same prey through code and firewalls.
I remember noticing her handle and thinking whoever was on the other side of that screen had style—clean, efficient, and very dangerous.
She traced me as fast as I traced her, until finally we both hit the same address at the same time.
We agreed, reluctantly, to take the hacker out together. We both had questions, and neither of us liked sharing.
When I finally saw her in person, I almost laughed. She was just a kid. A girl, barely out of school. Then she put me flat on my ass and had a gun to my head before I could finish the thought.
Ten minutes later, she had the hacker trussed to a chair, calmly extracting answers in a way that made even me take a step back.
Efficient. Precise. Brutal. That was the night I realized age didn’t mean a damn thing.
Oksana could’ve been sixteen or ninety—it wouldn’t have mattered.
She was more adult at sixteen than most men I know at forty.
We’ve been allies ever since. The kind built on mutual usefulness, blunt honesty, and shared blood on our hands.
Neither of us has illusions about loyalty.
Hers is to her brother. Mine used to be to La Famiglia.
Now it’s to Sophia. Family politics kept us from socializing, but we found ways.
She took the odd contract for Omertà Infernale; I quietly flushed a few traitors out of her ranks when it suited both of us.
When she mentioned that Toni and Grigori were getting friendly, it surprised me until I sat back and looked at the board.
Toni isn’t allowed to lay a finger on Carlos—edict from our Don.
But the Russians aren’t bound by our leash.
It doesn’t take a genius to see how the Savage King would play it: if he can’t swing the blade himself, he’ll use Grigori’s hand to do the work. And tonight, the pieces fall.
My next call is to Leo, “Do we still have that bypass on the courthouse records?” I ask.
Leo laughs in my ear. “You bet your ass we do.”
Little does Stephano know that I added a little bypass into one of his programs that he had me install a few years ago. It's come in handy over time, and it will be more than useful now. “Find me a meat suit,” I order. “I need a man who's going to jail this morning at the same facility as Carlos."
Keys chatter. “Javiar Donato. Manslaughter. I'll send you the address for the holding facility."
He hasn't even finished his sentence when my phone dings. "Good, get me out at midnight."
"You've got yourself a date," Leo agrees and adds, "I also have news about the license plate of that van you asked about, if you want to know about it now."
"Hit me," Lexy doesn't get spooked easily, and I want to know what or who is staking out the shelter.
"I linked it to a Venezuelan shell company.”
Fuck me. The puzzle keeps twisting. “Why the hell would the Venezuelans care about a shelter?”
“That’s the thing,” Leo pauses, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice before he drops it, “I don't think they’re watching the shelter. They’re watching you.”
I knew it. Aurelio Valverde’s still nursing that grudge over me planning on breaking into his home.
The bastard’s probably doing this behind Donna Margarita’s back.
I should be impressed—hell, I am. I wouldn’t let that shit go either.
But this? It’s a problem I don’t need right now.
Especially since I made him a promise. I told him I’d kill him.
And I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.
As much as I hate it, Aurelio will have to wait, though.
“Double the security,” I tell Leo. The Venezuelan Don’s already proven he’s insane enough to hit anything he thinks belongs to me. “Everywhere that matters.”
Leo doesn’t need details. That’s what I like about him. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t need explanations. He knows exactly what I mean. He’ll lock down Lexy, the shelter, and most importantly, Sophia and the house.
Because the day Aurelio crosses that line?
He won’t get a second chance.
An hour later, I say goodbye to Sophia, not telling her where I'm going, just telling her I'm making good on a promise and not to wait up for me, that I'll be late.
I can see the concern and questions in her eyes.
But she doesn't ask. She knows I won't lie to her, not now, not ever.
But I'd rather she not know what I'm up to ahead of time, because I don't want to worry her unnecessarily.
"Be careful," is all she says, giving me a long, deep kiss.
"Always." I grin at her. "I'll be back before you know it, princess."
I know where the holding facility is, and forty-five minutes later, I park the Ducati in the highly secure parking lot.
No alarms go off when I step through the metal detectors; there is no need to bring a gun here.
The inside of the building swarms with law enforcement officers of all branches and criminals of all kinds. Women and children hug and cry as loved ones are taken away.
Leo sent me a picture of Javiar Donato. The man is bald and has so many tattoos that it's hard to make out his original skin color.
Not that it matters, by now, Leo will have his picture switched with mine in the system, and he will have greased or threatened the two Marshalls escorting Javiar.
It doesn't matter to me which. Money or threats, it's all the same.
I nod at the older Marshal; he looks pissed, so I'm guessing Leo had to threaten him. The man acknowledges my nod and directs Javiar toward the men's room.
"Hey, what the fuck, bro. I don't need to go." Javiar protests.
I hold the door. The two Marshalls stay outside. Two more men, police officers, are inside. "Out."
They stare from me to Javiar, then to each other. Both seem seasoned enough to realize this is not their beef and do as I say.
"Who the fuck are y—" that's as far as Javiar gets, before my fist hits his Adam's apple, crushing it. Javiar goes down on the floor. Wheezing, he desperately tries to get air in through his crushed larynx. I remove the shackles on his wrists and ankles, then peel his orange jumpsuit off his spasming body. Naked and finally dead, I put him into a stall, lock the door, and dress in Javiar’s clothes.
Leo has already arranged for someone to collect mine and dispose of Javiar.
I shackle myself, keeping the key as insurance, and shuffle out of the restroom.
The entire thing is done in less than five minutes.
The two Marshalls stare at me—the taller one with suppressed anger, the other with curiosity. Neither says anything as they put me into the white transport bus, where others are already chained to benches.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, uninterested in the other men, who instinctively shrink back from me. Predators recognize a superior one in their midst.
Two hours later, we enter Rykers, and two hours after that, I'm processed and in my new cell.
My cellmate tries to get fresh and has some ideas of which bunk I'm supposed to take—I don't give a shit, I'm not staying—but it's the principle of it that makes him lose a few teeth.
The bastard is lucky I didn't kill him, but I don't want to make too much of a scene.
I wait another few hours, listening to the sniffling of my cellmate and regretting not having him permanently shut up. Time moves slow. Too slow. I already hate this place. It reminds me too much of juvie, where I did a couple of years.
It's not hard to make out the Russians; every ethnic group in here keeps to themselves. I get a few curious looks as I make my way to the group of Russians; everybody pretends not to watch, but they all expect a show.
A man, built like a tank, rises, "Raffael?"
"Sokol," I acknowledge him.
"We'll come and get you," he informs me.
There's no need for a further exchange, nor is there a need for me to join the others and eat. I'm not in the mood for the slop they serve here, although during my life, I've eaten worse.
Back in my cell, another hour passes, then the locks click, and the night CO waves me forward. Bought. Good.
The shower block is tile and echo, the air thick with heat and metal. Water hammers the floor like rain. Two of Sokol’s men take up the door, casual as walls. The CO peels off to nowhere and leaves us to the noise. An Italian-looking man makes himself scarce. A shank is pressed into my hand.
Carlos Orsi steps into the steam with a towel on his shoulder and a face that still thinks the world owes him a bow. He doesn't see us coming, not until it's too late.
The first shank hits his side. Satisfied, I watch as his body jerks, noting how his eyes widen in shock and disbelief. Then the first wave of pain hits him, dropping him to his knees, and he screams in agony for his bodyguard, who flips him off before he leaves.
Carlos yells again; now his voice is raw with panic, begging for his life, instead of trying to fight back like a man. I'd always known he was a coward; I just didn't realize how much. The next cut is shallow, delivered by me, meant to hurt, not to kill.
"Please, whatever you want, I'll give it to you. I’ll pay you more—" Fury overcomes me, and I cut him again.
One of the other men slices his arm open.
Blood sprays over the cold tile floor. I have no clue what Grigori's men are saying, since they're speaking Russian, not that I care.
My focus is entirely on Carlos. His fear and agony are music to my ears.
All the years I worked under the bastard, the scars he gave me come back.
But most of all for what he's done to Sophia.
He sold her off to a man he knew would abuse her.
Sophia told me how she went to Carlos for help.
Instead, he threatened her. I bathe in his fear and agony.
My only regret is that it will be too quick. Quicker than Roberto's death.
Over and over we cut him, in my rage I want to lash out at the Russians for taking my kill, but some rational part—I think Sophia brought it back to life—stops me.
Way too soon, Carlos is nothing but a bleeding piece of flesh on the ground.
The water from the shower takes the blood down the drain.
I bend over and grip his hair, tilting his head up, and recognition curdles his mouth. His pupils blow wide. “I made you.”
I press the shank to his carotid artery, “No,” I tell him, quietly. “I made me. Despite you.”
He flinches. Sokol and the other Russians say nothing. The water keeps talking.
“This is for your daughter,“ I fill him in.
He opens his mouth to say a curse, a prayer, or a weak defense. Who cares.
“I already killed Roberto," I add, letting it land where it hurts. “It’s your turn.”
Our eyes meet; there is a plea in his, and fear.
I do what I came to do.
Clean. Quick. No theatrics. The shower hisses, and the CO down the hall coughs into his elbow and studies a wall that has become incredibly interesting. Sokol glances at his watch. We ghost back into the steam, and the room knits itself closed behind us like it was never open.
By the time the paperwork stumbles into the right hands, I’m Raffael DeSantis again on a plastic bench in a white bus, taking me back to the intake facility. Sokol’s crew is smoking. And Carlos is dead. Just like I promised.