I have no idea who or how they cleaned up the warehouse and got rid of the bodies I left behind, but that’s not my concern. Mine is to make sure it doesn’t derail us and whoever is responsible pays.
Vin leans against the edge of the desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He’s been holding everything together since the first call came in last night. Calm as ever, watching me the way he always does, like he’s taking inventory without making it obvious.
“You alright?” he asks, nodding toward my right hand.
The bandage is clean, fresh gauze wrapped tightly. There are seventeen stitches underneath. It throbs when I move it, which is often enough to be annoying.
“Fine,” I say. “Looks worse than it is.”
He doesn’t argue. We both know a busted hand isn’t the problem.
I shut the door and cross the room, dropping into the chair behind the desk that used to belong to my father. The weight of that doesn’t escape me. It shouldn’t. It won’t.
“How bad?” Vin asks.
He already knows. He just needs to hear how I’m going to say it.
“A fucking shitshow,” I reply. My voice comes out steadily, which surprises me under the circumstances. “They wanted it seen. Made sure of it.”
Vin nods once. He’s been my father’s Director of Port Operations for as long as I can remember. He isn’t muscle or a figurehead. He’s the one who knows which terminals stall if a permit gets delayed, which crews get reassigned when a contract shifts, and how to keep the entire system moving when something vital gets ripped out of it.
“I heard they found your father early this morning,” Vin says. “Warehouse District. Looked like a robbery gone wrong.”
“So I hear,” I say.
Vin nods. “Uniforms are treating it that way. Street cameras, canvassing, the usual noise. Nothing that points back to the ports.”
Silence settles between us. It isn’t awkward. It’s the kind that comes from knowing exactly what the other person is thinking.
“I have no idea where the other three went,” I say, not as a question.
“He must have hired someone to clean it up and get rid of them.”
I study his face. He gives nothing away.
“I never knew they had it in them to do all of this,” I say. “I know we aren’t church boys, but fuck.”
“This business is ugly. Keep your wits, though. Everyone’s watching you,” Vin says. “Competitors. Regulators. Anyone waiting to see if the Stones lose their footing.”
I meet his gaze. “They won’t see a thing.”
He holds my eyes for a beat, then nods. “You sound like your father.”
I don’t respond because that thought is chilling. I never thought of my father in this light. I always knew he skirted the law, and he taught us all how to handle and carry weapons, but I never thought we’d use them like this.
Vin shifts, folding his arms. “You said one of them talked.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Didn’t take much. Gave the name up like it was currency.”
“Laurent Boudreaux.”
I don’t blink. Neither does he.
“That lines up with what I’ve been hearing,” Vincontinues. “This wasn’t random. He’s been angling to expand his reach in the ports for years. And he wanted you to know it was him, if you ask me.”
“They’re watching to see how we respond.”
Vin’s mouth tightens. “Then they picked the right way to get one.”
