Page 87 of Ruthless Enforcer

Shit. "But that’s not the point."

"No, it’s not."

I close my eyes briefly. "The garage?"

"Gone. Three vehicles destroyed. Two hundred kilos of product gone. If anyone had been working late—" He doesn't finish the sentence.

He doesn't have to.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"At the site. The fire department just cleared out. Gabriel, I've got eight men here who want blood, and I'm running out of reasons to tell them to wait."

I go into the closet and grab a shirt. "Tell them to wait anyway."

"For how long?"

"Long enough for me to prove James Whitlock didn't order this."

The silence is heavy. Then my brother says, "You're sure about that?"

"Yes, I am." Dropping the shirt on the bed, I glance at my wife.

"Why?"

Keeping her gaze, I speak clearly, to her as well as my brother. "Because James Whitlock doesn't use bombs. He uses lawyers, politicians, and economic pressure. If he wanted to hit us, he wouldn't go after one of dozens of fucking garages. He'd go after something that mattered."

"This matters," Alessandro says quietly. "Mateo matters."

"Not to Whitlock." I scrub a hand over my face. "This reeks of Turner."

"You have proof?" he asks skeptically.

"Not yet. But I will."

"Gabriel—"

I shake my head. "Give me twenty-four hours."

"I don't have twenty-four hours. I have maybe six before someone decides to retaliate, and then we're in a shooting war whether you like it or not."

I turn to look at Clara. She's already out of bed, pulling on a shirt, her expression calm and focused.

"Then I'll work faster," I say. "But Alessandro, listen to me. If we hit Whitlock now, we're doing exactly what Turner wants. He's counting on us to react before we think."

"And if you're wrong? If Whitlock did order this?"

"Then I'll kill him myself." My voice is flat, cold, and I mean every word. "But I'm not wrong."

Alessandro is quiet for a long moment. "Six hours," he finally says. "After that, I can't hold them."

"Understood." I end the call and immediately pull up Hendricks's number.

Clara crosses the room wearing the cashmere lounging set she bought in Portland and stands in front of me. "How bad?"

"Bad." I hit dial. "Someone bombed one of our garages.”

Her brow furrows. “A parking garage?”