Owen’s eyes narrowed on the house that Declan indicated. It was technically white, even though the siding was so grimy that it looked gray. There were ruts in the grass, as if someone regularly parked on the lawn, and the roof was sloping on one side. Half of the windows were boarded up.
The thing probably should have been condemned. Instead, they had intel that the place was a crack house.
The problem was that the product they were dealing here was from the Italians, and this was Irish territory. The man running this house was encroaching on their territory. It was ballsy, and Owen was going to make them pay for it.
Parking in front of the house, he got out and marched up the rickety wooden steps with Declan right behind him. His brother had pulled a gun, but Owen kept his tucked into the waistband at his back. He’d pull it if he needed it, but his rage was fueling his urge to get his hands a little dirty today.
Not bothering with a subtle approach, he stomped across the porch, lifted his foot, and kicked the door in. The thunderous crash seemed to echo within the house as the door slammed into the wall. Sunlight streamed into the dark house illuminating a living room crowded with trash and broken furniture. There were four men there, and they scattered with exclamations of surprise.
The bunch of cowards probably recognized him and were trying to flee his wrath, but he wasn’t worried about most of them. His intel was good, and he knew that only one man here was dealing for the Ialtians. He’d seen the pictures taken by the men he’d ordered to stake the place out and memorized that man’s face.
Moving further in the house, he saw his target emerge from a room down the hall. There was panic in the man’s eyes as Owen’s long strides closed the distance between them. He looked shocked, which was probably why he didn’t try to run away. Shock could make a man react strangely to threats.
When Owen reached the asshole, he grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall. His eyes bugged out as he tried to struggle against Owen’s hold uselessly.
Declan was nearby, watching Owens’ back as he leaned in close and growled, “You think you can invade my territory and get away with it?”
The man gasped for air, unable to speak as Owen’s hand tightened on his throat.
“You know what?” Owen said, a wicked smile twisting his features. “I have a couple of messages for you.”
He released the man, who gasped for air, his knees nearly buckling. “W-what are the messages?”
At least he wasn’t pretending not to know who Owen was or what this was about.
“The first one is for Mancini. You go running back to him with your tail between your legs and you tell him that moving into Irish territory in any way will not be tolerated. If it happens again, it’ll be war.”
Terror flashed through the man’s eyes, but Owen didn’t care. If Mancini was going to be pissed enough to take it out on the messenger, that wasn’t his problem. This man was a high ranking member of the Italian mafia, he knew what he was getting into when he came here.
“A-and the other message?” the man asked.
“That one is for everybody else.”
Without a second of hesitation, he pulled out a switchblade and buried it into the man’s side. The blade was short, and he made sure to avoid any vital organs, but he was still sure that it hurt like hell.
The man cried out in pain, trying to swing out at Owen as he pulled out the knife and took a step back. He missed, and Owen couldn’t help letting out an amused chuckle at the man’s futile effort.
“Make sure the house is empty,” he told Declan as he fisted the man’s shirt at the back of his neck. He yanked the man toward the door.
“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted.
“I told you, I’m sending a message,” he replied as he shoved the guy down the porch steps. “I want everyone to see what happens when you cross us.”
“House is clear,” Declan said from behind him. “Looks like everyone ran out the back door.”
The lack of a fight was rather pathetic, but Owen didn’t comment on it.
“Burn the place,” he ordered his brother while the injured man struggled to his feet on the lawn. He was clutching his side, which was bleeding, but he could walk. Owen jerked his head toward the street. “Get the hell out of here. Deliver my message.”
Declan pulled a can of gas from the trunk and went back inside while Owen leaned against the hood and waited. It was only a matter of minutes before Declan came back out of the house with black smoke billowing out of the doorway behind him.
They didn’t speak as they drove away from the house. There was no need. The dirty work had been done, and Owen was confident that the man he stabbed would go straight to the Don.
I show him who’s weak.
Dropping off Declan at his place, Owen headed home. He lived in a home on the east side, where there were a lot of new developments popping up over the past decade. It was a residential area for people that were wealthy enough to buy a large plot and build their own homes.
Owen had his house designed to his specifications. Large, modern, secure. He’d also purchased three plots of land so that he didn’t have to deal with any close neighbors. He preferred not to bring his work home, but if it was necessary, he liked knowing that there was no one close enough to see or hear anything they shouldn’t.
