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A victim of fate and circumstance, and now those boxes are my priority. I can already tell we’re missing more than a few.
“Talk,” I demand right off the bat.
Some days, I’m not sure if these clowns are more afraid of me or my father. But they’re right to fear both of us. I’ve seen men chewed up and spit out at the breakfast table before I turned six. It was as much a part of life as learning to tie my shoes or riding a bicycle for the first time.
Serve the family. Protect the empire.
Punish anyone who steps out of line. It’s a rinse-and-repeat kind of deal.
“We’re sorry, Miss Balestra. It was an accident. It’s not like we meant for anything to happen to the boxes,” the older one tells me.
I feel rather than sense Rafel step up behind me, no doubt crossing his arms over his chest like he’s some kind of Arnold Schwarzenegger even though he’s only five ten and built like a toothpick. A strong toothpick, but he wouldn’t win a bodybuilding contest.
“I don’t want excuses. Tell me what happened.”
Pretty face. Bland smile. Hint of violence in the eyes, and all the while assessing. Everything went on the truck the way it was supposed to, heading from San Diego, California, all the way through the western expanses of nothing-but-shit-and-tornados until it reached us tonight, on the edge of Lake Erie.
Mafia in Ohio.
It still surprises me to think about it.
Somewhere along the line, these guys must have stopped outside of their designated route because the Balestras have men at each of the weigh stations to make sure the shipment reaches us intact.
Where did we lose the boxes?
“We did everything we were supposed to do,” the one on the left assures me. Older, yes, with a hint of gray already in his hair, while the one on the right looks to be in his early twenties. And far guiltier.
Ah, so the older man feels protective of the other one. How is this going to play out?
“Oh? So there is nothing wrong, then?” I ask sweetly.
I scan the boxes at the feet of the two men, counting silently in my head. A hint of anger slips through my mask. We’re three packages short.
I send a sharp glance to the first man, the one who mistakenly makes eye contact after gazing leisurely at my legs.
“Where did the truck stop?” I asked, my voice a whip of sound. The man on the left flinches. “Where did we lose three of our crates?”
“We had this one come straight through Fort Wayne. No s-stops,” the young man stutters. “As we were ordered.”
“Obviously, you’re lying to me. Unless you’re calling mycousina liar.” I stalk forward and lift a leg, stomping on the lid of the first crate. “He personally verified the shipment from his end, and the total count was thirty. This is twenty-seven. Explain.”
Both of the men drop their eyes to their shoes. “We didn’t make any unauthorized stops,” the older one murmurs.
They’re worker bees.
And I happen to know that neither one of them has been with our organization for more than six months. It’s one thing to treat subordinates well enough that we gain their loyalty. This is not the case. This is not the first time packages have gone missing in the past few weeks. Not by a long shot.
Which means something is going on. Insideandoutside of the Balestra organization.
It might not be these two buffoons, but they’re the ones I’m looking at right now.
My stomach drops, and the semi-calm of the third martini trickles away. Papa is going to have to listen to me this time. It’s happened too often to be an accident at this point.
I snap my fingers before a bit of my exhaustion slips through my mask. I rub my temples and sigh. “Rafel?” I look over my shoulder to my driver. “Assistance?”
He smoothly lifts to attention and pulls out a gun from the holster hidden beneath his coat, cocking it at the two workers.
The one who stared at me gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing like a fishing lure on choppy waters.
