I scowl at him, and it hits me. Sean O'Malley doesn't buckle for anyone. Not our uncles. Not the cops. Not God himself. I accuse, "You're scared of them."
He takes a painful breath, then declares, "All I'll say is this. I don't know what we're involved in. But I've been warned about keeping my mouth shut. And these people aren't playing games, Brax. So do me a favor and don't get yourself killed."
"Fine. Keep your secrets to yourself." I rise, grab my spare key out of his kitchen drawer, and move toward the exit.
"Brax!" he calls out.
I stop but don't turn back.
"You're my brother. That's not changed. If I could talk to you, I would," he claims.
"Sure. Get better," I spit out, slam the door, and leave the same way I entered.
A new level of anger hits me, and the cold welcomes me like a punishment. I keep my head down, ignoring anyone I pass, the sting in my feet, and the burn of rage under my ribs.
When I finally get to my apartment, I take a shower, put on fresh clothes, and make two ham-and-cheese sandwiches. I scarf them down, then go into my home office.
There are six computer screens on the wall. Sean's uncles, Declan and Nolan, also took me under their wing. At an early age, they taught me how to hack, access the dark web, and find things others never will.
I turn on the power and mutter, "You want to hide your secrets? Then I'll come find them."
I crack my knuckles and start typing.
Kirill Petrov.
I hit enter, then go out to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge. The cold feels good sliding down my throat. I take it to my office and sit down, watching the green letters move too fast to read.
The dark net isn't accessible to most. It's not monitored like Google or social media. It's a network of backdoor trails, half-deleted files, government warnings, blacked-out dossiers, and encrypted data nodes labeled "Redacted."
I finish my beer, and the letters stop moving. A long list pops up on the screen. I click one link and direct it to screen one. Images of Kirill standing beside a coffin draped in a Russian flag appear. He wears a hardened expression, and his scar is still red. The caption reads:K. Petrov — classified operations, Eastern Bloc, 2004.
I peer closer. "What the hell were you, Scarface?"
I scroll further, but every link leads to a dead end of deleted accounts and disappeared witnesses to crimes. The only constant is the scar on his face, turning paler as he ages. And it's always the same angle with the same dead eyes staring at whoever took the photo.
I read through situations and crimes the government decided to hide for who knows what reason. However, that isn't uncommon in my world either. Crime families know how to make things disappear.
Nothing seems abnormal for a criminal in a mob family.
Why hadn't I heard of him before?
I read dozens of files, start to get bored, then type in my next victim.
Valentina Abruzzo.
The results are worse. Nothing but art auctions, fake modeling profiles, and coded references to "FINZIA", the same word tattooed under her collarbone. I click on a thread labeledFINZIA PROJECT – Milan Archive.
The page flickers before I can read more than a few words, then the words bloodline, inheritance, and seat-at-the-table flash before it's gone.
"Dammit!" I slam my hand on the desk.
They're like ghosts wrapped in gold.
They have their claws in Sean.
And me.
No, they don't.
