Why would she do that? You’re being paranoid.
Like a Mama Bear. I suddenly realize that I would kill for this baby. Andy. Raoul. I don’t care who I take down to make sure that my child comes into this world safely.
“I’m not taking any chances, Andy,” I say. “Nothing will endanger my baby. Nothing!” Something flickers in her eyes, and I sense that she’s picked up the veiled threat in my words.
“Fine,” she huffs out. “Just be aware that, at some point, he has to know. You may not believe it now, but it’s for your child’s welfare, Emma. Like it or not, that little soul needs a father. And I’m pretty certain that there won’t be a lot of men on this planet who’ll be as good at it as Raoul Caraldi.”
I stare at her, my mind racing, wanting so desperately to believe her.
“Sure,” I say eventually. “I’ll let him know.”
“And then it’ll all work out.” Andy squeezes my shoulder again. “It’s going to work out, Emma. You’ll see.”
My smile is terse when I nod at her.
I can only pray that she’s right.
Chapter 2
Raoul Caraldi
“Sorry, Boss, I know it’s a fucking disaster.” Mario rubs a hand around the back of his neck. We’ve just been through an hour of CCTV footage that confirmed my suspicions about what when down.
The devastation left in the wake of the attack on our New York warehouse is a very clear message. And it’s obviously from my uncle.
We store art here. Brilliant forgeries of works by grand masters that are picked up by collectors around the world. Some use them for their dodgy insurance claims. Some because they want to dazzle their guests with bullshit about being able to afford the originals.
I don’t honestly care about their motives as long as I make money out of it. And I’ll admit that I enjoy the fact that aside from the inflated egos involved, nobody really gets hurt. Maybe I’ve grown soft, but I don’t like the human collateral that seems unavoidable in my family business.
Now, I’m looking at a shitstorm. Pallets of artwork have been up-ended, and canvases are strewn around, slashed beyond recognition. The mess we’re walking through is worth millions. Or it would have been.
I don’t give a fuck about the money.
What’s got my attention is the pool of blood seeping into a pile of scattered packing material. Two of our men had gone down in the gunfight.
“Dino and Joey,” Mario says grimly. I nod silently, taking it in. Feeling guilt at knowing there are families suffering because of what they lost today.
“Do you want me to track down the fuckers who did this?” Mario asks. I shake my head.
“No. I’ll deal with it,” I reply. “We know who’s behind this. Mark my words; they’ll all pay. And so will everyone they care about.”
“Yeah.” He heaves a sigh. “It’s not the sum total of our losses, though. I’ve had a few of our runners come in over with bad news this past week. Supply lines to the clubs are being disrupted.”
I purse my lips, not liking the sound of that. Our designer drug stream is another decent cash source.
“Completely disrupted?”
Mario shakes his head. “We caught it in time. Just some petty hoods trying to muscle in on our turf. If it had been a big problem, I would’ve told you.”
His answer gives me a grim sense of satisfaction. Mario is my captain for good reason. He could run the show himself, whether I was around or not. He’ll only do it if I ask him, where many others would be eyeing the throne. I trust him implicitly. Men like him are gold in this business.
“I called you in for this because I knew it was something different.” He goes on to explain the call to visit the vandalized warehouse. “I’m sorry about the uh…interruption.” He glances at the ground. If it weren’t for the bodies we’re standing so close to, I’d be ragging him right now. He’s mortified about the timing of his phone call. I’d been balls-deep in Emma, and he was chattering to me, unaware. Poor bastard.
Poor me, dammit.
It’s been a lifetime since I took any time out. I was enjoying my little getaway with my beautiful bride. Maybe I should head home for a quick “conjugal visit.” The thought makes my nuts tighten, but I shove the feeling aside. This isn’t a time for self-indulgence. Heads need to roll. Men need to be mourned.
Jesus, this is a fuck-up.
