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22
Damian pacedthe floor of the cyber lab, watching the feeds on two of the monitors as several people tapped at keyboards on other computers. He’d turned on the cameras as a precaution before he’d left the apartment with Aria. He hadn’t expected to catch two men trashing the place, spray painting on the weathered brick walls of his living room, cutting open the cushions of his sofa, trashing his art.
They’d been smart enough to wear ski masks, but he had no doubt that they were Primo’s men. Would have known they were Primo’s men even without the angry red letters on his walls.
WHERE IS SHE?
He cursed, turned off the monitors. The destruction of his Tribeca apartment was a risk he’d taken when he’d chosen a building without a doorman. So far the cameras on the Westchester estate showed nothing out of the ordinary. Damian assumed it was further down Fiore’s hit list.
“I’ve got the latest, boss,” Cole said, stepping into the room. He handed a stack of papers to Damian. “Sent a couple guys over to your place to hold down the fort in case those assholes come back.”
“They won't be coming back,” Damian said. “They delivered their message.”
He flipped through the papers in his hands. There had been over twenty hits on Fiore operations since eight o’clock that morning, with more scheduled after dark. They’d taken out Platinum, all of Primo’s bookmaking operations, the strip clubs he used to wash money, two of their safe houses. They’d had four injuries — three gunshots and a knife wound — all of which were being taken care of in the medical ward on-site. The assault on the Fiore operation would continue for the next seventy-two hours, fanning outward from the city, upstate and over to Connecticut, west to New Jersey and Pennsylvania.
Primo had been late to the party. The attack had obviously taken him by surprise, probably because he’d expected the fire at the shelter to be the impetus that would force Damian to act. He couldn’t know that Damian had been preparing the strategy since he’d left the club after their failed negotiation.
He handed the papers back to Cole. “I read the reports. I want your assessment.”
“The city’s under control,” Cole said. “There are still a few hot spots, a few places still under fire, but I think we’ll take them before the night is through.”
“NYPD?”
“Adhering to our agreement for the most part,” Cole said.
“Good. Let’s clean it up before the day is out,” Damian said. “They won’t be able to stay out of it forever.”
“Will do, boss.”
“What about our friends?” Damian asked.
The Syndicate’s team was operating under their jurisdiction but under its own control.
“Pros all the way,” Cole said. “Hit their targets clean and fast.”
“Good.”
Cole shuffled nervously on his feet.
“What is it?” Damian asked.
Cole’s gaze touched on the people manning the monitors, most of them following Cavallo vehicles on GPS to route them around police or listening to comms of the men on the ground in case they needed backup. “Can I have a word?” he asked.
They stepped into the hall. “What is it?”
“The hit on your place,” Cole said, “is that personal?”
Damian knew what he was asking, and if it had been anyone but Cole Grant he would have told him to go fuck himself. Personal was personal. Which meant nobody’s business but his.
But he owed the truth to Cole.
Damian nodded. “It is now.”
Cole tried to keep his face impassive. Asking was one thing, passing judgement was something even Cole wouldn’t dare. “I take it she came to you?”
“She did.” Damian kept his voice flat, not wanting to betray the feeling of protectiveness, of possessiveness, that swept his body at the thought of Aria still in his bed.
“What does this mean for our operation?” Cole asked.
