ALESSIO
A few hours later, we're still waiting. I don't mind waiting. Patience has won me more wars than bullets ever have. It gives me time to catch up on the dozen smaller fires that never stop burning. Our empire doesn't grind to a halt just because we're at war with Cesar.
There are still street crews skimming off the top, convinced nobody will notice a few missing thousand here and there. They always forget one thing. I notice everything.
A distributor on the west side has suddenly started reporting half the product he did last month. Either someone's stealing from him, or he's stealing from me. Either way... we'll have a conversation.
One of the bookmakers is three weeks behind on his tribute.
A collector broke a man's jaw when he should've broken his kneecap.
Details matter. There are still businesses to inspect.
Money to move. Judges to keep happy. Politicians to remind who keeps them in office.
Problems that would've felt important a week ago.
Now... they're just paperwork.
Several of the women we pulled from the warehouse are still staying at the mansion.
Some have nowhere to go. Others are too terrified to leave.
Beccs has practically adopted them. She’s suggested turning the mansion into a halfway house.
Somewhere safe. Somewhere they can learn a trade, find jobs, rebuild their lives before facing the world again.
She called it a chance. Massimo called it expensive. Gabe wanted to know who'd run security.
Money has never interested me. What it can do...
that's another story. Besides... every hour Beccs spends planning paint colors, interviewing counselors, and arguing with contractors for renovations is another hour she isn't chasing danger.
If giving her a purpose costs me a few million dollars...
it's the most profitable investment I'll ever make.
The casino, thankfully, needs very little from me. The Consulate runs like a Swiss watch. Managers manage. Pit bosses watch the floor. Surveillance watches everyone else. The slot machines keep happily swallowing retirement funds. For once... the only thing refusing to behave... is the past.
Finally, my phone vibrates with Marco's call. "What do you have for me?"
"The Mexicans are leaving."
"How many vehicles?"
"Three."
"Same as before." I stand. Every conversation around me dies. Rossi watches me carefully, ready for whatever I decide. "Pick them up. Don't let them leave."
"Yes, Boss."
"I need at least one alive."
A grin creeps into Marco's voice. "Roger that."
The call ends. Before I can pocket my phone, it buzzes again. Olivere. I answer. "Talk."
"We're at the mall."
"And?"
"They're in Hermès."
I can't help the corner of my mouth lifting. "Hermès."
"Yes, Boss. They're... shopping." He sounds almost offended by the concept.
"Any issues?"
"No."
A pause. "Miss Morgan appears to be... enjoying herself."
The image comes uninvited. Beccs laughing.
Probably arguing with a price tag. Probably trying to convince Jenna that no handbag on earth is worth the price of a decent pickup truck.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Good.
She deserves a few hours where the world isn't trying to kill her.
She deserves a life that doesn't revolve around blood, bullets, and body armor.
Funny.
A few months ago, I'd have said that wasn't possible. Now... I find myself wanting to prove I was wrong. I shake my head. How the hell did she do it?
One stubborn, grease-covered mechanic with a mouth that never stops running.
A woman who thinks four-thousand-dollar purses are criminal.
Who laughs in the middle of firefights. Who argues with me like I'm not one of the most dangerous men in Nevada.
Who somehow manages to make my penthouse feel like a home instead of a fortress.
Somewhere along the way... she slipped under my skin. Then into my head. And before I realized what was happening... straight into my heart. I used to think building an empire was the hardest thing I'd ever do. Turns out... it was making room for one tiny, infuriating woman inside it.
The realization should terrify me. Instead...
it feels right. Because somewhere between tow trucks, fake dating, bad coffee, and stolen bacon...
she stopped being the woman I was protecting.
She became my reason for pulling the trigger.
My reason for putting the gun down. My reason for coming home.
And if I have anything to say about it...
she'll never have to wonder where she belongs again. Because she belongs with me. Always.
"Keep it that way."
"Yes, sir."
The line disconnects. Rossi catches the smile before I manage to hide it. "She okay?"
I slip the phone into my pocket. "She's laughing."
He nods once. "Good."
Yeah. It is. For the first time in a long time... she's letting herself breathe. Now it's my job to make sure nothing steals that from her again.
I look at Rossi. "Get the helicopter."
He doesn't ask why. He simply starts issuing orders. Within minutes we're crossing the casino roof toward the helipad. The rotors are spinning. The pilots are in their seats. Everyone moves before I have to tell them twice. That's how it should be.
I climb into the helicopter. Rossi takes the seat opposite me and the doors close with a light hiss. Seconds later the Strip falls away beneath us. Las Vegas stretches across the desert like a field of diamonds. Beautiful from up here. Ugly if you know where to look.
Halfway there, my phone vibrates again. "Marco."
"We got them."
I had no doubt they would. He's a good man. "Status."
"We've kept two alive. "
"Any casualties on our side?"
"No."
Good.
"And the warehouse?"
His voice turns more strained. "We checked."
"And?"
"Four bodies."
My stomach tightens. "Flea?"
"Yeah."
Shit. I wanted him. I had a few things planned.
Marco exhales slowly. "Looks like they put him through the wringer." I wait for him to continue. "They wanted something. And whatever it was, it wasn't given willingly."
I look out the window. The endless desert gives way to an isolated industrial lot. The warehouse comes into view. Black SUVs. Men loading the dead into trucks to take them to the Oven.
"Leave them for now." I want to see if I can find some of what the Mexicans have been looking for. Because I have no idea what it could have been.
Gabe called this morning, and we talked about what happened at the clubhouse. Audra got the impression that Flea had known about the Collector, but Razor didn't. There is a connection between the two, and I'll figure out what it is.
"Yes, boss."
"I'm three minutes out." The line goes dead.
I slip the phone away. Rossi reaches across the aisle and hands me a glass of Stagg.
Probably anticipating that I'll need it.
We don't talk, just stare out and drink.
Whatever happened inside that warehouse...
the cartel just erased my best lead. I don't believe in coincidences.
If they tortured Flea to death... he knew something worth dying for. And I'm going to find out what it was.
The helicopter settles onto the cracked asphalt in a storm of dust and grit. The rotors are still spinning when Rossi jumps out first, scanning the perimeter. I follow a second later.
Marco is striding toward us. "Boss."
"What've we got?"
"They cleared the place before they left. Looks like they weren't expecting us quite that fast."
"Anyone get away?"
He shakes his head. "Not unless they sprouted wings."
Good. We walk toward the warehouse. From the outside, it's nothing special.
Another forgotten building slowly surrendering to the desert.
Loading docks. Corrugated steel. Cracked concrete.
High windows covered in decades of dirt.
Nature has begun reclaiming it. Weeds push through the asphalt.
One loading door hangs crooked on rusted hinges.
A shopping cart lies on its side beside a burned-out oil drum. Someone had tried living here once.
A filthy mattress sits against one wall. Beer cans. Rotting blankets. A child's bicycle missing both wheels. Broken windows. No electricity. No air conditioning. No comfort. At least Flea didn't spend his final days in luxury.
Marco pushes the heavy door open. The smell hits first. Blood.
Rot. Urine. Fear. My footsteps echo across the empty concrete floor.
Then I see the first bodies. Three of them, all still wearing Black Canyon cuts.
All dead from a single round through the forehead.
Execution style. Quick. Professional. Not personal.
I crouch beside the closest one. Cold. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. Nothing interesting. I move on. Marco doesn't say a word. He knows I'm looking for something.
My eyes fall on Flea. He's stripped naked, hanging suspended from chains bolted into the ceiling.
Both shoulders sit at impossible angles, probably dislocated.
Repeatedly, if I had to guess. Burn marks run across his chest. His thighs.
His stomach. The cattle prod that was used lies disregarded on the ground in the pooling blood. Cheap and effective.
His feet are almost unrecognizable. All of his toenails are gone. The skin beneath them is little more than shredded meat. Whoever questioned him knew exactly how much pain the human body could endure without dying.
He's covered in cuts and bruises. His fingers were broken.
One ear is missing. His jaw hangs slightly crooked.
Also broken. Probably early. Harder to scream that way.
I study the floor beneath him. A dark pool of blood has spread across the concrete.
Not enough. He didn't bleed out. The blood dried where it landed.
Which means... he was already dying before they lowered him.
No. Not lowered. I look up. The chain is still under tension. He died hanging. Slowly. I step closer.