As much as I hate it, Aurelio will have to wait, though.
“Double the security,” I tell Leo. The Venezuelan Don’s already proven he’s insane enough to hit anything he thinks belongs to me. “Everywhere that matters.”
Leo doesn’t need details. That’s what I like about him. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t need explanations. He knows exactly what I mean. He’ll lock down Lexy, the shelter, and most importantly, Sophia and the house.
Because the day Aurelio crosses that line?
He won’t get a second chance.
An hour later, I say goodbye to Sophia, not telling her where I'm going, just telling her I'm making good on a promise and not to wait up for me, that I'll be late. I can see the concern and questions in her eyes. But she doesn't ask. She knows I won't lie to her, not now, not ever. But I'd rather she not know what I'm up to ahead of time, because I don't want to worry her unnecessarily.
"Be careful," is all she says, giving me a long, deep kiss.
"Always." I grin at her. "I'll be back before you know it, princess."
I know where the holding facility is, and forty-five minutes later, I park the Ducati in the highly secure parking lot.
No alarms go off when I step through the metal detectors; there is no need to bring a gun here.
The inside of the building swarms with law enforcement officers of all branches and criminals of all kinds. Women and children hug and cry as loved ones are taken away.
Leo sent me a picture of Javiar Donato. The man is bald and has so many tattoos that it's hard to make out his original skin color. Not that it matters, by now, Leo will have his picture switched with mine in the system, and he will have greased or threatened the two Marshallsescorting Javiar. It doesn't matter to me which. Money or threats, it's all the same.
I nod at the older Marshal; he looks pissed, so I'm guessing Leo had to threaten him. The man acknowledges my nod and directs Javiar toward the men's room.
"Hey, what the fuck, bro. I don't need to go." Javiar protests.
I hold the door. The two Marshalls stay outside. Two more men, police officers, are inside. "Out."
They stare from me to Javiar, then to each other. Both seem seasoned enough to realize this is not their beef and do as I say.
"Who the fuck are y—" that's as far as Javiar gets, before my fist hits his Adam's apple, crushing it. Javiar goes down on the floor. Wheezing, he desperately tries to get air in through his crushed larynx. I remove the shackles on his wrists and ankles, then peel his orange jumpsuit off his spasming body. Naked and finally dead, I put him into a stall, lock the door, and dress in Javiar’s clothes. Leo has already arranged for someone to collect mine and dispose of Javiar. I shackle myself, keeping the key as insurance, and shuffle out of the restroom. The entire thing is done in less than five minutes.
The two Marshalls stare at me—the taller one with suppressed anger, the other with curiosity. Neither says anything as they put me into the white transport bus, where others are already chained to benches.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, uninterested in the other men, who instinctively shrink back from me. Predators recognize a superior one in their midst.
Two hours later, we enter Rykers, and two hours after that, I'm processed and in my new cell. My cellmate tries to get fresh and has some ideas of which bunk I'm supposed to take—I don't give a shit, I'm not staying—but it's the principle of it that makes him lose a few teeth. The bastard is lucky I didn't kill him, but I don't want to make too much of a scene.
I wait another few hours, listening to the sniffling of my cellmate and regretting not having him permanently shut up. Time moves slow. Too slow. I already hate this place. It reminds me too much of juvie, where I did a couple of years.
It's not hard to make out the Russians; every ethnic group in here keeps to themselves. I get a few curious looks as I make my way to the group of Russians; everybody pretends not to watch, but they all expect a show.
A man, built like a tank, rises, "Raffael?"
"Sokol," I acknowledge him.
"We'll come and get you," he informs me.
There's no need for a further exchange, nor is there a need for me to join the others and eat. I'm not in the mood for the slop they serve here, although during my life, I've eaten worse.
Back in my cell, another hour passes, then the locks click, and the night CO waves me forward. Bought. Good.
The shower block is tile and echo, the air thick with heat and metal. Water hammers the floor like rain. Two of Sokol’s men take up the door, casual as walls. The CO peels off to nowhere and leaves us to the noise. An Italian-looking man makes himself scarce. A shank is pressed into my hand.
Carlos Orsi steps into the steam with a towel on his shoulder and a face that still thinks the world owes him a bow. He doesn't see us coming, not until it's too late.
The first shank hits his side. Satisfied, I watch as his body jerks, noting how his eyes widen in shock and disbelief. Then the first wave of pain hits him, dropping him to his knees, and he screams in agony for his bodyguard, who flips him off before he leaves.
