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We’ve had people watching Fitzgerald’s house for weeks, so getting inside didn’t pose a problem. They already knew the guards’ routes and Alessandro disarmed the outdated security system in less than five minutes.
When I step inside the house, I pass the house staff, gathered together in a corner and facing the wall, some of them visibly shaking. Two of my men stand guard over them. I follow Nino toward the rear of the house.
Fitzgerald’s second-in-command is sitting at the dining table with the barrel of Pasquale’s gun pressed against his lefttemple. The Irishman looks up, then follows me with his eyes as I approach the table and take a seat across from him.
“Where’s Patrick?” I ask and lean back in the chair.
“I don’t know,” he snaps.
I nod at Pasquale. He lowers the gun and shoots Deegan in his thigh. The Irishman screams.
“Where is Patrick, Deegan?” I ask again.
“I don’t know!” he chokes out. “When he heard the raid had failed, he got into his car and disappeared. He’s probably in one of his safe houses.”
“Figures.” I will never understand how a coward like Fitzgerald ended up as the head of a major criminal organization. The Irish were probably in disarray when the Bratva killed off most of their leaders four years ago, and he took an open opportunity to rise fast within their ranks. “Do you know the locations of the safe houses?”
“No. Patrick never shared those with me.”
“Too bad.” I look up at Pasquale. Another gunshot pierces the air. Deegan twitches once, then slumps forward, blood pooling from the fresh hole in the side of his head.
“What should we do with the staff, Boss?” Nino asks.
“I’ll leave it to you to decide. If you think any might talk, dispose of them.” I stand up. “Tell Alessandro to burn down the house. I don’t want any evidence we were here.”
It was by accident that I found out about Alessandro Zanetti’s skills with fire. I sent him to dispose of some competition a while back, assuming he would shoot them. Instead, he tied them up inside an abandoned shack and set the thing on fire. It burned down so thoroughly and so fast the bodies couldn’t be identified.
I’m halfway to my car, with Nino at my side, when thesound of gunfire rips through the air. It’s coming from the direction of the garage to our left. Nino takes out his gun and runs toward one of our soldiers, who is already returning fire by the overhead door. It looks like some of Fitzgerald’s men decided to hide in the vehicles. Nino slips inside while I take my gun out of the holster and head to the other side of the building’s door to cover him.
A man, gun in hand, rushes out of the garage and turns to aim at one of my men changing his magazine next to the door. I send a bullet flying. The Irishman falls, blood oozing from his neck. There’s another body sprawled on the ground a few yards back.
Inside the garage bay, Nino is crouching behind a vehicle, trying to neutralize the last two shooters, who are raining bullets in his direction from behind another car. I fire a few bullets in their direction, but they both duck. Nino straightens and runs toward the other car while one of our soldiers and I cover for him. He kills one of the foes immediately, but the last one launches toward the exit, shooting randomly. Bullets tear into him from all directions, and he falls to his knees, then topples over.
I throw my gun on the ground and take off my jacket, pressing it over the bleeding wound on my left side.
I check the time on my phone. Half past two in the morning. Where is Salvatore? He told me he needed to take care of something. That was hours ago. I open the call log and swipeover his name again. He didn’t answer on the last two calls. That never happens. I half expect this one to go unanswered, too, but a sigh of relief escapes my lips when I hear his voice on the other end.
“Tore? Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” he says in a clipped tone.
“Where are you? Has something happened?”
“No. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He cuts the call.
I grip the phone tighter as my hand shakes for a moment. Taking a deep breath, I open the contact list, find Nino’s number, and hit the green call button.
“Mrs. Ajello?”
“Where is he?” I bark into the phone.
“Who?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Nino. Where is Salvatore, and what happened?”
A short silence falls across the line before he answers. “We’re downstairs.”
“In the office?”
