I check my watch as I walk toward the elevator. It’s time to handle another problem. Something messier but simpler. Sometimes you need to get your hands bloody to clear your head.
As the elevator doors close, I find myself smiling. The weight of my gun against my ribs is a pathetic substitute for my father’s lighter, but it will have to do for now.
When I’m in my car, it takes every ounce of self-control I possess to stop myself from driving straight to Raven and demanding my lighter back. But somehow I manage to keep my urges in line.
The warehouse looms against the darkening sky, a hulking silhouette at the edge of the industrial district where Cleveland’s forgotten dreams go to rust.
Inside, two problems await me. One sitting in a metal chair with zip ties cutting into his wrists, and another hiding under his clothes in black ink circles. I’m good at solving problems. Especially the kind that bleeds.
The metal door groans on its hinges as I push it open. The stench hits me first. Sweat, fear, and the metallic tang of blood already spilled. “Next time, I want a torture room with a window,” I complain.
My men laugh, and the rat that’s zip-tied to a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor groans. I can forgive him for having lost his sense of humor considering his left eye is swollen shut, bottom lip split and leaking crimson down his chin.
Joey Scott is one of my own guys, and he’s been part of the distribution crew for the past three years. I fucking hate disloyalty in the ranks more than anything else.
“Boss,” Jim acknowledges, shifting his weight. “He hasn’t said much.”
I take my time crossing the floor, each step measured. Joey’s good eye follows me, darting between my face and the floor like he can’t decide which is safer to look at. His breathing comes in quick and shallow bursts. He knows what happens to traitors.
“Joey,” I greet him, voice light as if we’re meeting for drinks. “You’ve looked better.”
He licks his lips, wincing when his tongue finds the split. “Matteo… Mr. Russo… there’s been a mistake. I swear to Christ.”
I circle him once, twice. The collar of his shirt is torn, revealing the edge of something black at the base of his neck. Not a normal tattoo; a perfect circle, partly visible above his collarbone.
“That’s new,” I observe, hooking a finger in his collar and yanking it down. The movement makes him gasp. The circle is complete, solid black, about the size of a half-dollar. Just like the ones on those fuckers’ wrists. “When’d you get the ink, Joey?”
He swallows hard. “It’s not what you think.”
“Tell me what I think, then.” I release his collar and shrug out of my suit jacket, draping it carefully over a nearby stack of pallets. The warehouse is warm, stuffy with trapped heat and the promise of violence.
“It’s just a tattoo.” His voice cracks. “My girlfriend’s into all that new-age shit. Says it represents, uh, wholeness or some crap.”
I roll up my sleeves with methodical precision, one fold at a time. Right first, then left. Joey’s eye tracks each movement like I’m assembling a gun.
“See, that’s interesting,” I muse. “Because I saw the same mark on two people who tried to kill me last week.” I lean in close enough to smell the fear on him. “Coincidence, right?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” he insists, shifting in the chair. The zip ties cut deeper, plastic teeth biting into flesh. “Look, if this is about the shipment last month—”
“What about the shipment?” I interrupt, voice dropping to a whisper.
His single functioning eye widens. “Nothing. Nothing! I just thought—”
“You thought what?” I circle behind him, placing both hands on his shoulders. He flinches at the contact. “That I wouldn’t notice twelve kilos going missing between the dock and the warehouse? That the count would just… magically balance itself?”
“I didn’t take anything!” The desperation in his voice could almost be convincing. Almost.
I pat his cheek, a gentle touch that makes him jerk away. “Joey, Joey, Joey. You disappoint me. I gave you responsibilities. Trusted you with the product. And this is how you repay me?” I move around to face him again. “By stealing from me and wearing enemy colors?”
“I swear on my mother’s life—”
My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish, snapping his head sideways. Blood and spittle spray across the concrete.
“Don’t bring your mother into this,” I advise, flexing my fingers. “She raised a thief, a goddamn traitor, and a liar, but that’s not her fault.”
Joey spits a mouthful of red onto the floor. “I’m not a traitor,” he croaks. “I would never—”
I pull out my phone, swiping to the video I need. I hold it in front of Joey’s face, watching his expression collapse as he sees himself on the security feed—clear as fucking day—slidingpackages into his jacket at the warehouse where we process shipments.
