“They want to meet at the shipping yard outside of town,” I inform my brothers.
Salvatore nods with satisfaction, “That’s good.”
“I’ll take a couple of men and finish things,” I inform my brothers.
Raffaele balks, eyes darkening. “Hold up, this is my turf. No way in hell I’m letting you encroach on my right to inflict pain and commit murder.”
I let out a sigh, feeling my patience start to wear thin.
“You’re not going, Raf. I need to finish this, and I need it to be over fast. Leo’s bedtime is by nine p.m.”
I’d also like to get home before Lindsay falls apart. These days, the best part of my day is going to bed with her in my arms and waking up to find her there.
“Well, how about you go and tuck my little nephew into bed while I take care of the Russians?” he states darkly.
“No. I’m doing it.”
He growls, straightening and regarding me with hot coals in his expression.
“Raffaele, calm down,” Salvatore says to our brother in Italian before turning to face me. “You’ll take as many men as you need.”
“Of course. I’m not an idiot that’s going to walk in there alone. I know they’ll want to ambush us as well, but I’ll be ready.”
“We’re counting on them not having a lot of soldiers thanks to all our efforts at dismantling them,” he reminds me. “But what if our intelligence was wrong?”
“I’ve been surveilling one of the Bratva properties,” Elio finally speaks up. “Things are definitely tense, and I know for a fact most of their men have fled.”
“Did you ever get eyes on the Pakhan?”
“Rumor is, he’s still sick,” Elio replies.
My muscles tighten beneath the suit I’m wearing, “I guess I’ll be able to confirm tonight.”
“I’m coming with you,” my youngest brother announces, making me pause.
All three of us look at him, our gazes unsure.
“I’m coming,” he repeats. “Someone’s got to have your back, Matt.”
Raffaele makes a discontented noise in the back of his throat before sliding back into the armchair.
“Y’all never let me have any fun.”
Idiot.
We hammer out the last-minute details of our plan before Elio and I leave with the men in tow.
The air in the shipping yard smells like salt and rust. I step out of the car, my eyes already moving, tracking.
Shipping containers rise around us in uneven stacks, metal on metal, creating narrow corridors and blind corners. Floodlights cut through the dark in harsh angles, leaving just as many shadows as they eliminate.
“Cozy,” Elio mutters beside me.
I don’t respond. I’m already watching the men station along the perimeter. They get into the positions I designated them to, spread out and prepared.
We walk forward, about twenty men behind us. At the center of the yard, the Russians have set up something almost theatrical. A desk with a single chair, and behind it sits the Pakhan.
Old, weathered, but there’s a sharpness in his brown eyes. Two men stand at either side of him. His sons. They don’t bother hiding their weapons. The guns strapped to their waists glint at their sides, their expressions menacing.
