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“They’re not holding up well,” Dimitri observes, a dark amusement dancing in his eyes as another scream rips through the air. The sound, though dull, still manages to bounce around the large expanse of our base.
“They can fucking choke on their own screams for all I care,” I spit out, my knuckles white around the shard of spyware.
Our rats, Aleks’s rats, squealing their guts out in our cells. They’re nothing more than a distraction I don’t need. A distraction I can’t afford. Not when there’s a seven-year-old and a nanny upstairs who shouldn’t have to listen to this shit.
“What’s the plan?” Dimitri asks, his usual casual demeanor replaced by a tension that’s evident in the set of his jaw.
“Make ‘em talk and find every fucking bug in this place. And then, we’re going after Aleks. He’s not going to see it coming.”
Suddenly, the door slams open. Grisha staggers in, sweat dripping from his forehead.
“Janitor’s almost done,” he reports. “All fingers are busted. He’s on the edge.”
I look at him sharply, my heart hammering against my ribs. The janitor’s screams have been ringing in my ears, the sound of bones snapping under pressure becoming an unwelcome familiarity.
“Good,” I grit out, my fists clenching, “then finish it. We need that info.”
Grisha nods, turning back toward the door. He knows what’s at stake. We’re on the edge, and it’s only a matter of time before we tip over.
I throw a glance at Dimitri. His expression doesn’t flicker. It seems as if he’s watching a rerun of a dull TV show.
“We’ll crack him open, Luka,” he assures me. “Aleks won’t know what hit him.”
As if on cue, Erik walks in. His eyes are focused, determination etched into the lines of his face. “I’ve got news,” he says, tossing me a small device. “We’ve got some problems.”
I nod, catching the device in my hand. It’s a burner phone, one of many we use to communicate without risking our lines being tapped.
“What’s the news?” I ask.
“He’s expanding, Luka,” Erik says, his voice grim. “The fucker took over the Chicago Outfit’s territory.”
My blood runs cold at his words. Angeli di Fuoco. The Chicago Outfit – the most powerful Italian-American crime family, its roots dating back to the Prohibition era. The fact that Aleks was able to take them down… It’s unsettling. Not to mention the strategic advantage he now holds.
“And Armando di Fuoco?” I ask, dreading the answer.
Erik’s silence is like a slap, harsh and full of undisguised contempt.
“Dead,” he spits out, a nasty expression spreading across his face. “Aleks didn’t just off him; he slaughtered the sons, too.”
My grip tightens on the burner phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure. Aleks has made his move. Now, it’s time for us to make ours.
“The only one left now is Lucia,” Erik grunts, his fingers tracing the rough stubble on his chin.
“Lucia?” Dimitri asks, a frown creasing his brow.
“Armando’s youngest,” I clarify, bitterness biting at my words.
“Her old man and brothers are six feet under, thanks to Aleks and his fucking rats,” Erik continues. “She’s the only one holding the reins now.” He shifts uneasily before adding, “But she’s not cut out for this life. She’s a jewelry designer. Runs her own brand. Just turned 29, and she probably knows fuck all about our line of work.”
“Jesus,” Dimitri mutters.
“It’s all going to shit, quick,” Erik continues his grim update. “They’re scrapping among themselves; Aleks is pulling their boys to his side. ‘Cause Lucia, she’s a woman. Now that they’re on the ropes, other gangs are circling for the kill.”
“Fuck!” I spit. “She needs our help, Erik,” I command, “Tell her we’re offering it.”
“She may not trust us.” Dimitri frowns as he states the obvious.
“We’re not after trust, D.” Irritation lines my words. “We’re offering assistance. Her old man was indebted to ours. It’s time she steps up.”
