The Mafia King's Sinner

ALESSIO

Eight months before the Collector appeared……

The mountains are beautiful. Not that I give a shit.

Pine-covered ridges roll away beneath a sky so blue it looks fake.

They stretch endlessly across northern Idaho.

Snow still clings stubbornly to the higher peaks despite the late spring sun.

The air pouring through the open convertible smells of pine sap, cold stone, and money.

Not my money. Not originally, anyway. Some other poor bastard's money. Now my money.

The kind of town where everybody knows everybody's business and calls it community. My personal hell.

The Shelby growls beneath me as I accelerate through a long curve.

I slow the second I spot the Sheriff parked right beneath a 35-mile-per-hour sign.

Idiot. I pass him going thirty-six and resist the urge to wave my middle finger.

I don't have time to get pulled over for some traffic ticket bullshit.

The owner of this particular Shelby had certainly been good at lying. Three days ago, he sat across from me in a private office overlooking a casino floor in Boise and explained why skimming from us wasn't technically stealing.

An impressive argument. Creative. Completely fucking wrong.

I once spent six hours trying to convince a man to tell me where he'd hidden three million dollars. Eventually, I stopped asking questions and started removing fingers. That conversation had lasted longer than the one with the manager did.

The casino belongs to us now. The Shelby belongs to me. Life is full of lessons. I hope he learned something. Not that he lived long enough to put the lesson to use. Then I had to stay and hire a new manager. Yada, yada, yada. Three days later, I'm finally on my way back to civilization.

A faint vibration travels through the steering wheel. Enough for me to glance at the dashboard. Everything looks normal. The engine sounds normal. The temperature gauge sits exactly where it should. Which means absolutely nothing. People lie. Machines lie. The expensive ones are just better at it.

I settle back into the leather seat and let the wind tear through my hair.

The road unfolds ahead in long ribbons of asphalt cutting through forest and mountain.

Eventually the trees will thin. The mountains will flatten.

Idaho will become Utah. Utah will become Nevada.

Then Vegas. Home. The city that glitters in the desert like a diamond somebody stole and forgot to put back.

Most people see casinos. Lights. Luxury.

Excess. I see territory. I see power. I see how far I've come.

Funny thing is, nobody looking at me now would ever guess where I started.

Not the penthouse. Not the tailored suits.

Not like Massimo and Gabe. Not the casino with my name hidden inside ownership documents.

They'd never picture the trailer. The busted furniture. The MC clubhouse that smelled like stale beer, cigarette smoke, and desperation. My old man is a soldier in a biker club. Not important. Not respected. Not feared. Just another asshole wearing a patch and pretending it makes him somebody.

When he wasn't drunk, he was angry. When he wasn't angry, he was disappointed.

Mostly in me. By twelve, I'd learned fists were apparently a parenting technique.

By fourteen, I was selling coke. By sixteen, I was carrying a gun.

By eighteen, I'd killed my first man. Not because I wanted to.

Because nobody else was going to save me.

The Shelby coughs. Once. A subtle hiccup. I frown. "Don't start."

The engine smooths out immediately. Like it heard me.

Like it's innocent. Not that I believe innocence exists.

Not in people. Not in machines. Not in men like me.

The road stretches endlessly ahead. My thoughts drift toward Vegas.

Toward Massimo. Toward Gabe. Funny how a single moment can split a life in half.

Meeting Gabriel D'Amato did exactly that.

Before Gabe, I was a nobody with ambition.

After Gabe, I had direction. He'd seen something in me.

Not potential. I hate that word. Potential is what people call weakness while they're waiting to see if you fail.

No. Gabe recognized hunger. The same thing that lived inside him.

Inside Massimo. Inside every man who clawed his way to the top.

That endless need for more. More money. More power. More control. More.

I understood that language. Still do.

The Shelby shudders again. Longer this time. My gaze drops back to the gauges. The temperature needle has moved. Not much. Just enough. A warning. The smell hits next. Coolant. Faint. But there.

I sigh. "You're fucking kidding me."

The car offers no defense. Only another tiny vibration beneath my hands.

The nearest town disappeared fifteen miles ago.

The next one is probably another thirty ahead.

Nothing but forest, mountains, and empty road in between.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Exactly where every bad decision likes to happen.

The temperature needle climbs another fraction. Then another. The engine gives a metallic tick. A second later, a warning light flickers briefly. Gone. Then back again. I stare at it. The light stares back. Neither of us blinks.

The engine coughs hard enough this time to make the entire car jerk. My jaw tightens. "No. Don't you fucking dare."

The Shelby ignores me. A loud clank sounds somewhere beneath the hood. Followed by silence. The kind of silence every mechanic in America recognizes. The kind that makes a car stop, and just like that, the engine dies.

Momentum carries the Shelby forward another few hundred feet before I guide it onto the shoulder, where it rolls to a stop overlooking miles of pine-covered wilderness.

Not a house in sight. Not a gas station either. Not a single living soul as far as I can see. Not even another car. I haven't seen one since the last town. I sit there for several seconds. Listening. Nothing. Not even birds. Just wind.

Then I lean my head back and laugh once.

Short. Humorless. Because of course. I can dismantle a money-laundering operation in three countries.

Identify a rat in an organization of hundreds.

Read a liar before he opens his mouth. But, somehow, I managed to get stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere by a sixty-year-old car. Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic.

I stare at the dead dashboard. The dashboard stares back. Neither of us has any useful ideas. "Piece of shit."

The Shelby remains unmoved by my assessment. I pop the hood, mostly because that seems like the thing people do in movies. Hot air immediately blasts me in the face. I look at the engine. All I can tell is that it looks expensive. That's about the extent of my expertise.

My old man taught me how to pick out pure coke from something cut with baby powder.

How to tell crystal meth from rock candy.

How to break someone's fingers one at a time and keep them conscious enough to answer questions.

How to tell when a man is about to pull a knife.

He taught me how to hide drugs. How to move drugs. How to sell drugs. How to survive.

He never taught me how to fix a goddamn car.

Then again, the man hadn't taught me how to cook a meal, balance a checkbook, or shave properly either. Parental priorities.

With a grunt, I shut the hood. The metallic clang echoes across the empty mountainside. Nothing answers. No traffic. No people. No civilization. Just endless pine-covered slopes and a hawk—or maybe an eagle—circling so high above me it looks like a speck against the blue sky. Lucky bastard.

I check my phone. One bar. Barely. Enough.

I consider calling for a helicopter. The thought is tempting. Forty-five minutes from now I could be back in Vegas, bourbon in hand, sitting in my penthouse while somebody else deals with this problem. I can leave it sitting here. The previous owner won't care.

The image almost makes me smile. Almost. My gaze drifts over the black convertible.

The long lines. The aggressive stance. The old-school muscle.

There is something about it. Underneath the mechanical betrayal, it's a beautiful car.

A little modernization wouldn't hurt. New navigation.

A decent sound system. Custom leather. Performance upgrades.

I know a guy in Vegas who could turn this thing into art.

The Shelby deserves better than dying on the side of an Idaho road because I got impatient. With a sigh, I swipe the screen on my phone and search for garages. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. A church. A bait shop. A gas station. A motel that looks like it rents rooms by the hour.

But then a respite: Miller's Garage & Towing.

Twenty-two miles away. Well fuck. I press the number. The line rings twice. Three times. Four. I'm just about to hang up when a rough male voice answers. "Miller's."

"I need a tow truck," I tell him by way of greeting. I'm not in the mood for small talk.

Neither is he, it seems. "Car trouble?"

I glance at the Shelby, still not in the mood for small talk, but also unable to resist a sarcastic response to a line like that. "No, I just enjoy standing on the side of the road talking to strangers."

A nervous chuckle, the kind that suggests I'm dealing with back-hick intelligence. "Uh... where are you?"

I give him the highway marker.

"Yeah, we can get somebody out there."

"How long?"

"Hour. Maybe hour and a half."

I close my eyes. An hour and a half. Jesus Christ. "I'll survive."

"Good attitude."

I disconnect before I say something impolite.

The eagle—or hawk or whatever the hell it is—continues circling overhead.

Mocking me. I should call the helicopter.

The thought returns immediately. One phone call.

One pilot. Problem solved. Hell, I could probably be halfway to Nevada before the tow truck even arrives.

Instead, I find myself leaning against the Shelby.