The guard's mid-twenties, six-four minimum, shoulders like he bench-presses engine blocks for cardio. His suit fits him the way mine fits me—custom, expensive, designed to hide what needs hiding.
What doesn't need hiding is the sawed-off shotgun resting against his forearm.
The barrel's been cropped to a brutal little stump, the stock's gone entirely, and the whole thing rides in his grip like it grew there. Not flashy or threatening. Justpresent—the kind ofweapon you carry when the conversation's already over before it starts.
He doesn't point it at me.
Doesn't need to.
The passenger-side guard knocks on the opposite window—two sharp raps, impatient.
I don't turn my head.
Goon Number One gets my full attention because he's the one who decides if I'm driving in or getting dragged out.
His face is blank and professional. The kind of blank that means he's run this checkpoint enough times to catalog threats by engine sound alone.
Then he laughs—genuine, surprised—and leans down to get a better look at the Aventador's interior.
"Bavga, right? Pittsburgh?" He straightens, grinning now. "Heard you were compensating for something, butJesus."
The passenger-side goon snorts as he walks around the front of my car, joining his buddy.
I wait.
Goon Number One taps the roof with his palm. "What'd this set you back—three hundred? Four? You know they make pills now, right?"
I keep my hands on the wheel. My face neutral. My voice flat.
"I'm here to see Luca."
Both guards lose their smiles at the exact same time.
Synchronized shutdown.
Goon Number One steps back half a foot, shotgun still casual, still ready. "Turn it around, Bavga. Mr. LaRiccia don't take walk-ins. Especially not from Pittsburgh." He shifts the shotgun—not pointing it, justrepositioning. "In about five seconds you're gonna be wastin' my time and ya know what happens to men who waste my time, Bavga?"
"Trust me," I say, ignoring his performance. "He's gonna see me today. So why don't you just open the fuckin' gates like a good little piggie, and let me the fuck in before you start wastin'mytime and I need to showyouwhat that means."
Predictably, this hits.
But it was intended to.
I wantin.
And the only way to do that and not get killed, is to piss the guards off just enough to?—
Goon Number One's hand shoots through the window reaching directly for the door release like he's got the same fucking Lamborghini parked in his garage at home.
The door hisses open and then his hand is around my throat.
He hauls me out of the Aventador like I weigh nothing—six-four of muscle yanking me vertical anddragging, my shoes scraping pavement as he pulls me toward the opening gates.
The steel barriers slide apart on some unseen command and over my shoulder I catch a glimpse of Goon Number Two dropping into my driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors like he's taking it for a joyride.
He better not scratch it.
The gates swallow me.
