I close my eyes briefly. I don't owe him anything. He's not crew. Not protected. Not useful. He's a liability with an addiction who was unlucky enough to fall in love with my twin sister.
Three years ago, Massimo stood beside me while we tore through every man responsible for what happened to her. By then, she had been missing for over a year. A year. When we found her, there wasn't enough left to bury properly.
We killed them all. Slowly. Massimo didn't hesitate. Not because he was my Don, but because we're friends.
Ezara and her were engaged. I would've suspected him, but I saw his face in the morgue. I know what real grief looks like. After we found her body, he spiraled. Drugs. Gambling. Self-destruction. He's not a traitor. He's just weak.
"Which precinct?" I sigh.
He tells me. I hang up. For a second, I consider finishing the game. Letting him sit. Instead, I walk back in.
"The usual business," I fill Massimo in because Ezara is a liability and a responsibility I took on when I decided to leave him alive.
He studies me for half a beat. "Handle it."
Enzo looks up. "It might be time."To put the bastard out of his misery,the unspoken words hang between us. I nod. Message received.
Alessio groans. "You're up three grand."
"I'll collect later."
Strangely, Damiano doesn't have a smart remark to send me off with. No jab, no insult. Just that smug smirk he gets when he's already won something. I have no idea what game he thinks we're playing.
Or why it suddenly feels like I've already lost.
I leave without a word. Massimo and I had a conversation last time I picked Ezara up from jail.He's running out of excuses, was all Massimo had to say. I know. I know it's time toput him out of his misery, as Enzo calls it. But fuck it. If things had gone differently, Ezara would be my brother-in-law. Catarina loved him. I owe it to her to try to keep the fucker alive.I just don't know how. I've sent him to rehab six times already. The longest he lasted sober after was a week; the shortest, five hours. I know he's a dead man walking. But goddamn it.
I don't owe Ezara. But every time he calls, something in me answers. Maybe because he's the last living thread connected to her. Maybe because if I let him rot, it feels like letting her rot too.
The drive is quiet. The streets of Vegas blur past, drunk tourists on one side, drunk homeless on the other. Different budgets. Same endgame.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at the station. It's Friday night, and the precinct is filled with bad decisions.
I nod at Officer Ramirez at the reception area. He's on payroll. So are two others. Tonight they'll earn their paychecks.
"Ezara Loera," I lean over the counter.
Ramirez exhales. "Holding. Shouldn't be a problem."
Before I can answer, the hallway erupts. The sound reaches me first. Loud, hysterical crying. High-pitched panic. I turn, more out of boredom than anything else. It'll take Ramirez at least twenty minutes to get Ezara here. In the meantime, I have nothing else to do but stand here and find out what the commotion is all about. My guess would be tourists. They're usually the loudest. They come to Vegas expecting a good time.Toogood a time. They thinkeverythingis legal in Vegas. It isn't. And when they get arrested, the crying starts. I've seen and heard it a hundred times.
What walks down the corridor, though, surprises me. Women. Well-dressed women. Completely out of place. Hair that is styled for an Instagram photo, not a mugshot. Mascara streaking from tears. Hands cuffed behind their backs like actual criminals. They look like someone dropped a charity gala into a holding facility.
"Did they bust a soccer mom's meeting," I ask, watching another woman stumble in heels, "or is this a ring of hookers dressing up as Susie Homemaker?"
Ramirez's mouth twitches despite himself. "Housewives. Real ones. Bigoperation."
"Big operation of what? Coupon counterfeits?" I ask sarcastically.
One of the women wails, "I want my lawyer!"
Ramirez rolls his eyes. "You bought a knockoff purse, Karen. You're not El Chapo." He shakes his head at me. "Counterfeit purse ring."
I look at him. "Seriously."
"Full tactical response," he divulges dryly. "SWAT and everything."
I chuckle loudly. This is too funny to be true. "What, they think Chanel's cartel-funded now?"
