Page 24 of One Last Time

At the moment, he had no choice but to wait in the dilapidated restaurant. Although after all these years, it no longer resembled what it once was. They certainly couldn’t pass it off as a business under renovations when all someone needed to do was look at the crumbling walls to know better. Nonetheless, the business worked just fine for certain aspects of Andino’s job, and since he was stuck with it—seeing as how it had been in the family longer than he had—it was as good as anywhere to murder someone.

Right?

A throat clearing across the room had Andino finally looking away from the watch on his wrist. He let go of the cufflink as well, resuming his previous position with his hands folded in his lap while he sat on the edge of what used to be a table. Or hell, maybe it had been a stationary counter. He couldn’t be sure—there were no chairs to say either way and even the floor was just a mess of busted tiles that were no longer recognizable.

Across the space, one of two of his enforcers that he’d decided should stay inside the building with him glanced his way. Standing next to what used to be a window, but was now just a hole covered by slats of plywood, Nate nodded Andino’s way.

Ah, good.

The show was just about ready to start.

He’d been waiting for his.

For too long, perhaps.

Well, if he were an honest man, he’d just say he’d been waiting for it since the man who had come all the way from New Zealand—only known and spoke about as Mr. Moshka—sent someone to deliver a message to Andino’s wife. It was only made worse by the fact that his children had also been there that day.

Of course, nothing was ever easy.

Or simple.

Andino was also not a dumb man. He didn’t rush into teaching someone a lesson without considering all possible avenues and what might or could come of it after it was all said and done. He needed plans after it was all over, too.

So, he waited.

Did his job.

And let others do theirs.

Now, it was finally coming together.

The quiet stillness of the rundown restaurant and the area outside allowed Andino the chance to hear his incoming guests be stopped by the men he had waiting at the doors that were also covered in plywood.

“Yes,” one of his enforcers said, “you’ll go in alone.”

“That was not what I agreed—”

“Your boss either wants this meeting to happen, or he doesn’t.”

Seconds ticked down.

Andino continued to wait.

Nothing more was said outside, however. In the next minute, the door was opened and a man dressed rather smartly in a three-piece, black on black suit stepped beyond the doorway. Andino recognized him on sight—before the man even spotted Andino across the room or his enforcers standing on either side of the door with guns already drawn and pointed at his temples—as the man who took Mr. Moshka’s place at what should have been their first meeting months ago.

The one that Andino called off.

He wasn’t surprised.

Mr. Moshka, human trafficker extraordinaire, had intended to use New York as his personal collection field for trafficking victims seeing as how the state was both a melting pot of different people and a sanctuary city. It was easy to overlook those who went missing when those people were either undocumented in the first place, or came from an already overlooked minority group.

He was not the first human trafficker to think he would be able to do business with Andino over the years, and he doubted the man would be the last. He was, however, one of the most irritating because he hadn’t seemed to understand Andino wasn’t interested.

Some people would sell their souls in that way.

He wasn’t one of them.

It wasn’t as though Andino was a saint—he didn’t play the part, either. The entire Marcello empire had been built on the backs of people that would absolutely be considered victims. They made a great portion of their money in bribery, blackmail, illegal substance sales, a bit of smuggling between the States and Canada, and just a touch of arms dealing. They were criminals, absolutely.