Chapter 6
LEO
Someone in my organization is going to die screaming.
The interrogation room in the estate’s basement smells like blood and fear, which is exactly what it’s supposed to smell like.
I’ve been down here for six hours, working my way through every man who was on duty during the attack.
Every guard who could have possibly had access to our security protocols, property layouts, or personnel schedules.
Every single person who might have sold us out to Connor Brennan.
Twenty-three men questioned so far.
Most of them are scared—as they should be—but none of them are guilty.
I can tell the difference.
I’ve been doing this long enough to know when someone’s hiding something versus when they’re just terrified their boss is going to put a bullet in their head.
The man currently zip-tied to the chair in front of me is named Louis, and he’s one of my more experienced guards.
He was positioned on the east wall when Connor’s men breached the south gate, which means he couldn’t have been directly involved in the initial attack.
But I’m thorough.
Everyone gets questioned.
“Walk me through it again,” I say, my voice calm and controlled. I’m sitting on the edge of a table, arms crossed, watching Louis’s every micro-expression. “From the moment the alarms started to when you engaged.”
Louis’s been sweating for the last thirty minutes, but his story hasn’t changed.
That’s good. Liars tend to adjust details when they’re nervous as they want to make their story more believable.
Truth-tellers just repeat the same facts.
“I was doing my perimeter check on the east wall when the first explosion hit the south gate,” he says for the third time.
His voice is steady despite the fear in his eyes.
“I immediately radioed it in and took position behind the northeast guard tower. I saw at least twenty hostiles coming through the breach—maybe twenty-five. They weren’t street thugs. ”
“Weapons?”
“AR-15s, mostly. A few shotguns. I saw at least two men carrying what looked like breaching charges for the secondary gates.”
That matches what everyone else has reported.
Connor came prepared for war, which means someone gave him detailed information about our defenses.
“Did you see anyone on our side acting strange? Anyone who might have been signaling the attackers?”
Louis shakes his head. “No, sir. Everyone was engaging properly, following protocol.” He hesitates, then adds, “Zima wasn’t at his post, though. Southeast corner tower. When I radioed him during the attack, he didn’t respond.”
My jaw tightens. Zima. That’s the third person who’s mentioned him.
“You’re sure?”
Louis nods vigorously. “Yes, sir. I specifically remember because I was trying to get eyes on the south approach and he should have had the best vantage point, but he wasn’t answering.”
I study Louis for another long moment, looking for any sign of deception. Nothing. He’s telling the truth.
“You can go,” I tell him. “Send in Harry on your way out.”
Louis practically runs for the door, relief evident on his face.
I don’t blame him.
Being questioned by your boss after a security breach is never pleasant, especially when that boss has a reputation for what he does to traitors.
Dante is standing in the corner of the room, observing silently like he’s been doing for every single one of these interrogations.
He’s been here for hours, taking notes and watching for anything I might miss.
His dark hair is graying at the temples and his sharp brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses miss absolutely nothing.
He’s dressed in his usual professional attire, a tailored suit that makes him look more like a corporate lawyer than a consigliere to a mob boss.
Which, technically, he is both.
“Zima,” I say as soon as the door closes. “That’s the fourth person to mention he wasn’t responding during the attack.”
“Fifth,” Dante corrects without looking up from his notes, his voice flat. “Sal also said Zima’s radio was dark.”
I push off the table and start pacing, ignoring the sharp pain in my side from where I took a grazing shot during the firefight.
It’s not serious enough to need stitches but it’s painful enough to be a constant, irritating fucking reminder that someone on my payroll sold me out.
The blood on my shirt has dried to a stiff, uncomfortable crust and it’s pissing me off.
“Fifth,” I repeat, my jaw clenching. “Five people noticed Zima wasn’t at his post and no one thought to mention it before now?”
Dante finally looks up, his expression carefully neutral in the way that means he’s just as angry as I am but controlling it better. “They were busy being shot at. Priorities.”
“Don’t defend them.” I stop pacing and turn to face him, feeling my temper starting to fray. “Someone betrayed us. Someone gave Connor Brennan everything he needed to breach this property, and I want to know who.”
The battle replays in my mind, sharp and clear despite the chaos. Or maybe because of the chaos. Violence has a way of burning itself into your memory.
By the time I made it outside after Dante’s call, Connor’s men were already through the south gate, spreading out across the property like they knew exactly where they were going. Which they did, obviously, thanks to that bastard Zima.
The flash of muzzle fire in the darkness. The sharp crack of bullets hitting stone.
The way the air smelled like cordite and summer grass.
I remember ducking behind the fountain as rounds tore chunks out of the marble, the sound of ricochets whining past my head close enough that I felt the displacement of air.
And Connor Brennan himself—the arrogant fuck actually came in person, standing behind a line of his men, barking orders and pointing toward the main house. Pointing toward where Emma was locked up.
“That’s my daughter!” he’d roared across the lawn, his voice carrying over the gunfire. “She’s in there, you fucking coward! Let her go or I’ll burn this place to the ground!”
On some level, I did admire the audacity of him coming to my property, bringing an army and demanding I hand over his daughter like he had any leverage at all.
We’d engaged hard, pushing them back from the house, and forcing them to take cover behind the garden walls and hedges.
My men are better trained than Connor’s.
They’re more disciplined, better equipped, but Connor had numbers on his side.
For every three of ours, he had five of his.
Maybe more.
The battle lasted twenty minutes but it felt like hours. I remember returning fire and watching one of Connor’s men go down with a bullet in his shoulder.
I remember the explosion that took out the southeast corner of the garden wall, thinking that if they got much closer they’d be able to storm the house and I’d have to kill Connor Brennan on my own property, which would really start a war I wasn’t in the mood for.
But they didn’t get closer.
Eventually, when it became clear they couldn’t breach our inner defenses and when too many of Connor’s men were wounded and it was obvious they’d lose if they pushed harder, he called for a retreat.
“This isn’t over, Santoro!” Connor had shouted as his men dragged him back toward their vehicles, his face twisted with rage and desperation. “You hear me? This isn’t fucking over! I will get my daughter back!”
Then they were gone, leaving behind the knowledge that the Lombardos now know exactly where Emma is.
Which brings me back to the traitor question and why I’ve been in this fucking basement for six hours.
“Pull Zima’s file,” I tell Dante, my voice hard. “Everything. Where he lives, family members, financial records, phone history. I want to know everywhere he’s been in the last month.”
“Already done.” Dante pulls out his tablet, his fingers moving quickly across the screen.
There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that wasn’t there this morning.
“Alexander Zima, twenty-eight, been with us for six months. Came recommended from the Brighton Beach crew. Clean background check, no red flags during his probationary period. Lives alone in a studio apartment in Queens.”
“Lived,” I correct sharply. “Past tense. Because I’m going to kill him when we find him.”
“You’ll have to find him first.” Dante looks up from his tablet and I can see the frustration in his eyes, the barely controlled anger that he’s keeping restrained.
“I sent two men to his apartment an hour ago. It’s empty.
Looks like he packed in a hurry but took everything important.
His phone’s been disconnected and bank account was cleaned out yesterday morning. ”
The pieces click into place and I feel rage building in my chest like a physical pressure. “He knew the attack was coming,” I say slowly. “He gave Connor the information then disappeared before the raid so he wouldn’t be here when it happened.”
“That would be my assessment.” Dante’s voice is deceptively light, which means he’s furious. Dante doesn’t do obvious anger—he does cold, controlled rage that’s somehow more terrifying. “He sold us out and ran like the coward he is.”
I want to put my fist through a wall and hunt Zima down and make him suffer.
But rage won’t help right now.
I need to think clearly, to find out who facilitated this betrayal.
“Who paid him?” I demand, looking at Dante. “Connor doesn’t know Zima personally. Someone had to make the introduction and facilitate the betrayal.”
“I’ve got our financial analyst tracing the money trail now.” Dante checks his watch. “Should have preliminary information within the hour.”
The door opens and Harry enters, looking nervous.
I spend the next forty minutes questioning him—where he was during the attack, what he saw, whether he noticed anything unusual about Zima in the days leading up to the breach.
Harry’s clean.
I can tell.
He’s scared and loyal and didn’t know anything was wrong until bullets started flying.
After Harry, there are three more guards to question.
None of them are guilty.