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Of all my brothers, Max is the most anxious. He tries to hide it behind being prepared and ‘Type A’, but I think it’s because he’s so smart. He can see so many possible outcomes that it clouds his ability to think clearly sometimes.
“Papà is counting on us to close this. We need to be on top form tonight.”
“I committed it to memory. Everything is going to be fine. I still can’t believe French is a member of The Brigade…”
We step into the back of an idling SUV, and Gabriele sits up front with the driver. There’s a second SUV of security behind us, but even with all the extra men, I still feel as if whoever took those photos can still get to me.
“I can. He’s one of the best mercenaries in the game and can slice and dice ‘em better than those poor fucks on CookTV. Of course, they’d invite him to be a member.”
The Brigade isn’t a crime family in the traditional sense like Nuova Notte. We have a visible business front and nefarious ventures behind a public facade. The Brigade is a completely different beast, insidious and clandestine to a fault. Where we rule the East Coast loudly with an iron fist, they’re the world’s boogie monsters. They’re who the most hardened criminals call when they need assistance. No one knows for sure who their members are unless you’ve been inducted yourself or are an ally. You have to be invited to be a member and go through some initiation.
Most of the criminal underworld in this city doesn’t know the full extent of what they do, or for whom—just that they can make anything happen. Calling them the best fixers in the game is an understatement.
When Papà told me a week ago that French asked to speak with him about purchasing guns and ammunition, I had a feeling it was for a huge client. However, I did not anticipate him asking on behalf of The Brigade. Having them as an ally is a game changer… The fact that my father trusted Maximo and me to close this deal speaks volumes of how he views us.
This can change the way the famiglia will see us. I’m not a moron; I know Maximo’s position is taken much more seriously than mine. Not all of my father’s men think I deserve a seat at the table. Some of them have been arrogant enough to say it to my face and have since found themselves with angry wives and drained bank accounts. Sometimes Max and I can be petty for the sake of revenge.
Like fuck we’re going to mess up an opportunity like this.
“We should be there soon,” he muses, shaking his leg as he looks out of the window at the full moon.
Driving out of the city for a gun drop isn’t unusual. What is odd is how they insisted we meet in the middle of a forest, in some creepy as fuck warehouse. It gives off some serious axe murderer vibes.
We have the product in the truck behind the SUVs. The police are in our pocket, so they won’t bother us on the trip there or back. We’ve prepared for this meeting, so we know our stuff. But I still feel weird. It’s not a sense of dread, but more like an impending sense of… change? Like something life-altering is about to happen.
I either have a very active imagination or a sharp intuition. Maybe Max’s nerves are contagious.
We park the car, and I take a moment to center myself. French may be a friend of ours, but I don’t know anyone else in The Brigade… at least not that I’m aware of. Father’s words echo through my mind. Head on a swivel. It would be fatal to walk into this place without having my guard up.
My twin brother’s left hand covers my own, and he squeezes it to get my attention. He has a tattoo of an old-school revolver on the back of his right hand, a snake wrapping around the handle of the gun. The black shading stands out against his skin, even though the light inside the car has dimmed. It matches my tattoo of an identical snake curved around peonies and bullets on the back of my left hand. We got the tattoos a week after we joined the famiglia when we were eighteen. They signify what will always reign true—we’re a team. Just like every gun needs bullets, we work in tandem, two parts of the same whole.
It helps that he’s my best friend. We’ve basically spent the better part of our twenty-four years reading each other’s minds. I need to draw from that strength and stop worrying about whoever is stalking me. My focus needs to be on the here and now.
We climb out of the car, and the first thing I notice is how quiet the woods are. It’s nothing like the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps. The way the trees hug the warehouse seems almost serene compared to the grimy nastiness of the ones we own on the docks.
I check my outfit. My red silk button-up blouse is tucked into high-waisted, black pants. My heels are modest at three inches, lending a sense of practicality to the outfit. Stilettos may make me look more imposing, but I can’t run in them.
Safety first, after all.
Max opens the trunk to get to the hidden compartment beneath the flooring. I take a double holster out and secure it over my shirt, choosing a beretta with a custom silencer for my left side and a hatchet for my right. I appreciate the value of close, hand-to-hand combat, and a sharp blade is certainly a fun, albeit messy, way to take someone out.
After putting my blazer on, Gabriele raises a disapproving brow at my choice of weapons. He started as a guard on Luca’s team, but his skill prompted my father to transfer him to his personal detail. He arranges his security and manages his personal weapons stash. I know my father assigned Gabe to us because he worries about me… but he most likely did not anticipate how annoyed I would get being around my ex-fling.
It doesn’t help that I only broke it off a couple months ago because he’s clingy as fuck and too insecure for me. The constant texts of ‘Where are you? What are you doing?’ got so annoying. He’s a thirty-year-old man child, and his ego had him metaphorically pissing all over me like we were an item. As if I was his possession.
No man will ever own me.
“You should replace the hatchet with another handgun. It’s better for removed combat. If you’re packing one of your knives, you don’t need the hatchet for close-range altercations.” His voice has a douchey quality that grates my nerves.
I sigh apathetically, choosing to ignore him. Gabriele needs to learn his place. I’m perfectly capable of choosing my own weapons.
The rest of our crew stays back with the truck, while Maximo, Gabriele, myself, and two extra guards make our way to the front door of the warehouse. As per the instructions in the encrypted message French sent me earlier today,
“Who goes there?” A familiar French-accented voice echoes from a speaker on the side of the door.
“Maddalena and Maximo Vettore of Nuova Notte,” I reply.
“Hmmm,” the voice hums. “What’s black and white and red all over?”
