There’s a somber mood in the air when I ride up to the warehouse—Liam, Mac, and Jace close behind me.
Aidan is waiting for us outside, arms folded, leaning up against his own matte black sports bike.
“What happened?”
“Shipment got jacked,” Aidan replies, his face tense.
“Who leaked it?” I ask, pulling off my gloves.
“Jake O’Leary.” Aidan’s mouth pulls down in a frown.
“Where is he?”
Aidan nods his head toward the warehouse, and my jaw tightens.
I take my time dismounting my bike, no part of me eager for what I’m about to do.What I have to do.
Problems like this have plagued the Irish Devils for the past few months. Ever since the death—no,murder, of my father, Declan O’Rourke, the former head of the family.
None of us had been with him when it happened. Liam and Aidan were away at training camp over the summer with theBoston Breakers, and I was busy with my crew, overseeing the brokering of a critical arms deal with the Cartel.
Someone was selling information on the Irish, and after months of sabotage, we are no closer to figuring out who it is. I’m certain it’s the same someone who set up our father.
We know either the Russians or the Italians are responsible. We just have to prove it.
The Russians are the most likely; their Pakhan was on the move, expanding their businesses and pushing the bounds of their territory more than they ever had before.
But the Italians are also making unusual moves, cozying up to the Russians in a way I didn’t like. A Russian-Italian alliance in a city already pitched on the edge of a mafia war did not bode well for the Irish.
“Alex traced O’Leary’s financials back to a shell company with ties to Kostalov.”
Adrik Kostalov, the Russian Pakhan. Perfect.
Alex would know; he’d been our spy within the Bratva for years.
“You want me to handle this?” Aidan asks, although he already knows my answer.He might be focused on hockey, but he is still head enforcer, and something like this would normally fall under Aidan’s domain—or Mac’s, in Aidan’s absence—but disloyalty is something I see to personally.
Betrayal is a choice.
Betrayal can not be forgiven.
“No,” I answer, my jaw tight. “I’ll take care of it.”
There are eyes on me the second I enter the warehouse, but I ignore them, feeling their stares on my back as I stalk right for the lockers. A shipment just came in, and my men are here unloading and redistributing the product for delivery.
I can smell the blood the second I turn down the hallway leading to the lockers, where we keep and interrogate prisoners. It’s a thick, metallic scent, mixed with the overpowering scent of urine.
Alex stands guard, and I give him a slight nod as he unbolts the heavy metal door before sliding it open.
I step into the dank and dreary room.
Jake sits in the single metal chair, arms tied behind him, naked, and shivering from fear or the cold, I’m not sure. November is well upon us, and we don’t heat the warehouse. It’s cold enough in here to see my breath.
Jake lifts his head, eyes widening when he sees me in the doorway.
“Rí, please,” he rasps out, his throat raw from screaming. The bruises and blood on his body evidence that my guys don’t take too kindly to traitors either. “Alex is lying. I didn’t do it! Please show mercy.” He shakes his head, lips quivering.Pathetic. “I didn’t?—”
I lift my gun, firing a clean shot into the man’s forehead—the pleading stops.
