I sit in the dark corner of subbasement level three of Southside Crematory, which is conveniently tucked beside Chicago Memorial. During my hunt for the man in the photo, I discovered the Berishas’ most valuable contribution to The Association, money notwithstanding.
They’re the trash disposers.
Under layers of shell companies, they own the primary crematorium handling body disposal for the hospital and for The Association’s evil deeds.
Two weeks ago, I stitched the softest silk, touched a woman I should stay away from. Today, I’m dealing death. And worse yet, I don’t feel an ounce of remorse.
There’s no hope for me, Lana.
I push the thought away and refocus on the man before me, who heads up this fine establishment.
Carlos Alvarez, the black sheep of the Alvarez family, was disowned decades ago. And I have a feeling I’m about to find out why.
Sweat drips down his brow despite the cold bite of the room. The stench of embalming agents suffocates the air, and I swallow to curb the acid rushing up my throat. I aim my gun straight at Carlos, who’s quivering behind his office desk.
Why would the Albanians partner with the Mexicans?
Probably greed and power, the usual motivators for these assholes.
“Coast is clear. But the clock is ticking.”Ren, wearing his usual black mask, materializes beside me, his gait steady and silent.“A vat of toxic waste may have spilled in front of the elevators and the stairwell. It’ll take them time to cleanup.”
While an acrid chemical smell wafts through the air, in my mind, roses always try to cut through.
I nod. “I know you’ve got my back.”
Ren smirks.“Always.”
“Did you hear that?” I murmur to Carlos from my spot just out of sight of the cameras. “Of course not, you don’t know sign language. My friend here tells me we have twenty-eight minutes to get acquainted. That’s a lot of minutes.”
Carlos flinches. “K-Kent, I swear I—”
“Don’t know anything. Was forced to do it. I’m innocent—Stop. You were the man in the photo. Tell me who ordered the hit on the Lestes and why.”
“I can’t tell you because I don’t know!”
“Not acceptable.”
The asshole blanches. “I-I swear. The Albanian, Seely? Seelas? He handled everything. We made a deal. After this, he was getting me back into The Six’s good graces.”
Çela.
Fuck. The old man withheld shit before he died.
“You’re making me unhappy. You don’t want Elias Kent unhappy.”
Carlos stammers, “I-I can find you something. Records. Bodies moved through that day were documented in the system.” He starts typing, his forehead glinting with sweat.
The back door swings open. Aleksei enters, whistling a merry tune, his LED mask lit up. The neon saint is even more terrifying and unhinged in this dark space.
“You seem happy,” I murmur.
“I never get to go on outings, so it’s playtime.”
Carlos freezes mid-keystroke.
“What are you looking at, fucker?” Aleksei says, his voice warped through his distortion machine.
Carlos jolts, his eyes blow wide. A pained gasp escapes him.
