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"Someone's feeding them information," Miceli says, brown eyes just like mine filled with fury. "Too many shipments compromised. One of our safe houses burned."
Cold rage surges through me making my teeth grind and my muscles clench. "If it isfamiglia, they will die slowly and in more pain than they have ever known."
"It could be an outsider." Angelo finishes cleaning and putting away his tools.
He keeps them in a titanium lined briefcase, which goes with the dark suits he wears. He wouldn't look out of place on Wall Street but he's a bigger predator than any of those jackholes ever could be.
He snaps the briefcase shut. "Too many people working for us that aren't family."
It's an old complaint.
And I'm not in the mood for it today. "You got a problem with how I run things?" I ask, stepping toward my head enforcer.
"No, boss." Angelo's tone is even, his expression stoic like it always is.
He's loyal. He wouldn't be in this room otherwise. I'm still not taking any shit from him.
Miceli, who is both my brother and my underboss, says, "We have too many businesses to keep them staffed at the lower levels with made men."
Success has its downside.
Like any of us needs that reminder. But he knows how close I am to snapping and this is his way of keeping the peace.
"You think an outsider knows our business that well, even one who works for us?" I ask Angelo.
The Irish scum we'd just interrogated had been told what warehouse to hit and where to place the incendiary devices in order to make the fire look like a combination of faulty wiring and unlucky product placement.
Too bad for him, whoever gave him that information hadn't known about the security measures we added to all our facilities after a shipment got stolen from another location.
Measures only the men in this room and my chief of security are aware of.
"Fuck if I know," Angelo says. Which means he still thinks it's possible.
No matter how pissed off the idea makes me, I have to consider it. Just like I can't rule out one of my own as the informant.
"Either his instructions were a hella coincidence, or—"
"Someone arranged the merchandise to be arranged the way it was," I interrupt Miceli.
Warehouse logistics are handled by either the warehouse manager or the inventory coordinator. The managers are usually higher ranking and older made men, but the inventory coordinator could be a foot soldier. The forklift drivers, on the other hand, might not be Cosa Nostra at all.
They don't know the true contents of the boxes and crates though.
"It could be a compromised location," Miceli says with a frown.
"You think somebody bugged us?" We have better anti surveillance equipment and protocols than the military.
Miceli shrugs. "Unlikely, but not impossible."
"New surveillance shit is getting developed all the time," Angelo adds.
Miceli closes the floor again, so it looks like the steel sheets are welded together.
"Fucking Irish." This time it's Miceli who says it.
He presses the button that will send powerful jets of chemically treated water across the floor, the metal chair and table we use for detainees, and over the walls. Leave no trace. We have thirty seconds to exit before it starts.
Angelo and Miceli go first, to clear the room on the other side before I follow.
