"When?" I ask.
"An hour ago. Federal agents and local PD. They had a warrant, said they had reason to believe Riley Maddox's vehicle was on the premises."
I exhale slowly. Deciding not to just leave the car on the side of the highway was the right call. The car had too much evidence in it after the guys stripped it down. It had to be burned. We'd planned to abandon it somewhere, make it look like Riley had car trouble and disappeared, but burning it was cleaner.
"What did they find?" I ask. We knew this was coming. It's why I had a lot of product moved away from that warehouse. It took them a few days to get their little warrant but it gave us all the time in the world to be clean when they showed up. The problem is it'll connect to other things, which will have a trickle effect and we have to get ahead of it.
"They connected Lombardi to the company. His name showed up in old payroll records. The Feds are treating him as a person of interest in Riley's disappearance, and they're building a case that ties his death to organized crime." Feodor sounds as annoyed as I am about this whole thing. I just want it all to go away and for my life to be peaceful again.
Marco's paranoia kept us safe for years, but his death has turned him into a liability. Every thread he left behind is unraveling, pulling the entire operation into the light. It's like he fucking planned this even without his stupid dead man's switch. He knew what would happen and he wanted it to happen. He's paying me back from the grave. It's a wonder his fucking ghost isn't haunting me at night too.
"How bad is it?" I ask.
"Bad enough the boss wants us to shut down the Newark warehouse. Move everything out in the next eight hours. He gave us the order himself, Rafe… He's bypassing you now."
"Eight hours?"
"He thinks the Feds are going to hit it next. If they do, and they find what's inside, we're done."
I take the next exit off the highway and pull onto a side road. The Newark warehouse holds millions of dollars in product—pharmaceuticals mixed with street-grade drugs, all packagedand ready for distribution. Moving it on short notice is risky, expensive, and guaranteed to piss off every crew working the supply chain.
But leaving it there is worse.
Uncle Sal is right to want it gone. If they connect things and start searching our properties one by one, we're fucked.
"Tell the crews to start loading," I grumble. "Everything out by midnight. Reroute the shipments to the secondary locations in Pennsylvania and Ohio. And make sure no one leaves a trail."
"They're not gonna be happy about this."
"I don't care if they're happy. If Sal says it, we do it," I grunt. Not following orders means punishment. For me that's a stern lecture, but for men who report to me it's a certain death sentence. He expects full loyalty without hesitation. No exceptions. We have to do what he wants.
I hang up and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. The highway blurs past, and I feel the anger building in my chest. Every day brings another problem, another leak, another threat. The Feds are closing in. Enzo's circling. And I'm running out of time to stop Marco's dead man's switch from detonating on Christmas Day.
Riley's been working nonstop for weeks, rebuilding the financials, filling in the gaps Marco left behind. She's made it all the way to October, but that's not enough. I need her to finish. I need those records clean before the Feds get their hands on anything that can tie the pharmaceutical company to illegal operations. Because that's definitely what's coming next.
All it takes is a single shred of evidence that Lombardi may have been a hit. It doesn't matter that someone else killed him. They'll pick through everything and they'll have an army of forensic analysts to do it. Riley won't be able to keep up. She has to finish the work now before that happens.
By the time I pull into the safehouse driveway, my frustration has turned into full-blown rage. I park the car and walk inside, slamming the door behind me. The guard I left with Riley—a younger guy who's new to the family—is sitting on the couch, his gun holstered at his hip, and he stands when I enter.
"Where's she at?" I ask.
"Bedroom. She's been working all day."
I nod and walk down the hallway toward the bedroom where Riley's been working. The door's open, and I see her hunched over the laptop, typing quickly. It's such a common sight now that I almost expect it to be that way, but her concentration, the furrow of her brow, makes me pause for a moment to look at her.
She is working so hard for me and I haven't reminded her of her sister's impending potential death in more than a week. I think she's doing this for me now, not just herself. But that doesn't mellow my frustration at all.
She doesn't look up when I walk in.
"We need to talk," I say.
"I'm in the middle of something."
"I don't care. We need to talk now."
She stops typing and turns to face me. Her expression is tired, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and I can see thedark circles under her eyes. She's been working herself into the ground, and it shows.
"What happened?" she asks.
