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The eight-hour drive is tedious, but when I pull up to the warehouse, I’m alert and ready to start the job.
I put the car in park and dig the machine gun out of my bag of toys. Climbing out of the vehicle, I pull the weapon’s strap over my shoulder before putting on my jacket so it’s concealed.
Walking toward the back door, because it’s eight at night and the place is closed to the public, I lift my chin to the two guards, playing a game of cards.
“Is Fontana here?” I ask.
The one guard stands up, a frown forming on his face. “Who’s asking?”
“De Santis.”
“Never heard of you,” he mutters. “We only open at ten. Fuck off.”
He sits down again, grumbling as he picks up his hand of cards.
“That’s okay,” I chuckle. “Soon, everyone will know the name.”
Pulling two K-Bars out of my armored vest, I roll my shoulders as I walk closer.
Both guards jump up, their chairs falling backward. “You’re dead,” the bigger one growls as he stomps toward me.
When he takes a swing at me, I duck and plunge one of the knives into his armpit. Ripping the weapon out, I move quickly, slitting his neck open from ear to ear.
“Motherfucker,” the smaller one shouts as he yanks his gun from where it’s tucked into his pants.
I throw my knife before he can get his finger on the trigger, burying the blade in his left eye.
Stalking to the fucker, I crouch over him and pull the knife out. I wipe it clean on his shirt, then get up and kick a metal door open. It shudders on its hinges.
Holding the knives ready, I move into the back of the warehouse.
I see people packing drugs into small bags on the other side of the building. I keep walking as if I don’t have a care in the world, but instead, I’m ready for an attack.
When I near an office, lights from the windows shining into the main part of the warehouse, I hear someone say, “We had good sales this month.”
I appear in the doorway and watch as four men count stacks of cash. Fontana is sitting behind a desk, reading something on his laptop.
“I’m here to collect what you owe Luca Cotroni.”
My voice sends shockwaves through the office. Fontana is the first to move, rising from his chair.
When one of the four jumps up, I throw my knife into his chest. I twirl the remaining knife between my fingers as I step into the small space.
“You’ve been trading in Cotroni’s area for eight months without paying a dime.”
Fontana starts to laugh as if I told him the joke of the century while the other three men take fighting stances.
I throw my other knife, hitting Fontana in the shoulder while swinging my machine gun up and firing several shots.
“Gesù Cristo,” Fontana shouts, shock and fear bleeding over his face.
The three bodies drop to the floor, and shaking my head, I give Fontana a bored look as he rips the blade out of his shoulder.
“Fucker,” he hisses.
Lowering the machine gun, I step out of the office and shout to the people packing drugs. “Unless you want to fucking die, get your asses out of here in the next minute.”
I keep an eye on Fontana, who’s glaring at me, while the packers run toward the entrance.
Kicking the office door shut behind me, I turn my full attention on Fontana. “I have to admit, I’m disappointed. I expected more action.” I walk closer to the desk that’s between us. “How the fuck do you run a drug business with only six men guarding the stock?”
“How did you find out where I work from?”
Chuckling, I move closer. “Did you really think you could trade in Italy and the mafia wouldn’t know?”
He doesn’t answer me but just continues to glare at me.
Letting out a sigh, I say, “You will pay twenty percent of your gross profit to an account at St. Monarchs. Don’t miss a payment, because if I have to come back, I will take a pound of flesh for every cent owed.”
In other words, you’ll be nothing but a pool of blood once I’m done with you.
I pull the black card with the account number from my pocket and drop it on the desk. “You’ve made a gross profit of fifty-nine million euros over the past eight months. Transfer eleven-million-eight-hundred.”
There’s a stubborn light in Fontana’s eyes as he tries to stare me down. Not having any time to waste, I pull my Glock from behind my back and shoot the fucker in the left knee.
He drops to the floor with a cry, then a string of curses rattles from him. “Fucker. MotherFUCKER.”
“Transfer the money or lose your right knee, as well.”
He struggles to climb up so he can sit on his chair and makes the transfer.
