By evening, I have more pressing concerns.
“The Petrov leader is at his warehouse,” Benedetto reports, sliding into the passenger seat of my car. “Just like you said he’d be.”
“Good. How many men with him?”
“Four. Maybe five.”
Viktor Petrov thought he could kidnap my wife and walk away unscathed. He thought wrong.
The warehouse district is dark and quiet when we arrive. Over here, the screaming won’t travel far and bodies disappear without questions. Petrov’s operation runs out of a building that used to manufacture furniture. Now it manufactures misery.
“Back entrance?” I ask.
“Clear. My men are in position.” The back door is locked, but Benedetto produces a key one of Petrov’s own men sold to us months ago.
The main floor is empty except for shipping containers and the smell of fear. We follow voices toward the office area, where light spills through dirty windows.
Viktor Petrov sits behind a desk counting money when we walk in. His four bodyguards reach for their guns, but my men are already inside, weapons trained on targets before anyone can blink.
“Alaric Moretti,” Petrov says, not bothering to look up from his cash. “I wondered when you’d come calling.”
“You kidnapped my wife.”
“Business decision. Nothing personal.”
I pull my gun and put a bullet through his right hand before he finishes the sentence. His scream echoes off concrete walls while blood pools on the table.
“That was personal,” I tell him. “This is business.”
The next twenty minutes are educational. Petrov tells us about his organization’s structure, their future plans, theirweaknesses. He’s very talkative once Benedetto starts working on his fingers with bolt cutters.
When we have everything we need, I put the gun to his temple.
“Give my regards to your men in hell.”
The drive back to the estate is quiet except for the sound of rain starting to fall. Benedetto handles the cleanup crew while I wash blood from my hands in the car’s built-in sink.
“Do you feel better now?” he asks.
“It’s a start.”
The house is dark when I return, except for security lights and the glow from the kitchen windows. I’m heading for my office when I hear a car in the driveway.
Marco steps out of a black sedan, looking like he’s been through hell. His usually immaculate appearance is disheveled, his tie crooked, his hair messed up like he’s been running his hands through it.
“Welcome back, nephew,” I say as he approaches the front door.
“Uncle.” He embraces me briefly, and I’m struck by how much he looks like Dante. Same green eyes, same sharp cheekbones. The resemblance is unsettling—something I always marveled at when they were kids.
“How was London?” I ask.
“Complicated. My girlfriend didn’t want me to leave. Took some convincing.”
“Three months, wasn’t it?”
“Three months of crazy. I’m done with actresses.” He looks around the foyer, taking in the changes. “So where’s this new bride I’ve been hearing about?”
“Asleep. I’ll introduce you in the morning.”
