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I’d almost feel sorry for the guy—almost—except I know what this fucker has done, apart from the shit he stole from us.
Theo’s coming in, third to the big boss, Leo. But he’s not going to be here for about twenty minutes. Fatherhood and balancing family, along with being one of the nastiest, coldest killers around, means time is precious to him. He’d rather be home with his family than out here handling the dirty work.
That’s how much the De Lucas want their hands on this piece of shit who thought stealing from one of the most powerful mafia families in Dallas was a smart move. We don’t tolerate stealing, or profiting off our goods when it’s not your fucking place to do so. And selling to kids? That’s a death sentence.
But the fact that this guy who goes by the alluring name Weasel has a thing for young girls, willing or otherwise. He was bragging down at the local bar on the border of neutral and Lowlander territories about a girl he sampled. A girl he claimed had gone on to bigger things. A girl who sounded like Lissa Beaumont, who went missing last week, well . . .
We want a word, as De Luca enforcers, with this weasel named Weasel, all about that.
One of our informers came to tell us, not realizing the info she was handing over. She thought it was the drugs, as someone had been stupid enough to take, and this guy bragged about it, along with the girl.
Combine that with all the recent issues we thought we’d put to bed, and our desire to keep shit nice and clean for the bosses, we brought the guy in early. Thought we’d get the fucking party started early.
Theo’s going to want to discuss the drugs.
Tizio, once he gets his workout in, is going to want to discuss the girl and the big ol’ truck of laundered money that went missing around the same time.
He hits the guy again, harder than he needs to, shifting from roughing up to intent to kill.
That money that went missing isn’t De Lucas, so by rights, it is not our business. Neither is the girl. Technically. But there are girls missing, from all over the larger area inside and outside Dallas. People go missing all the time, it’s just she went when the shipment did.
A shipment under the watchful eyes of a small crew who work magic on the border, mainly for El Cabeza, and they’ve been known to throw in with some of the outliers affiliated with the Lowlanders.
The problem is, El Cabeza operates mostly in Mexico, and the Lowlanders, headed by the Irish and, in particular, O’Grady, an enigmatic player. I fucking say problem because the Lowlanders aren’t a family. There’s a loyalty not to cross the core run by O’Grady, but they’re secretive, and they use and take in anyone who can do things for them, make money.
We need to make sure things don’t fuck with De Luca.
It’s good right now, we’ve what passes as peace in the mafia.
And I’d like it to stay that way. I’d also like my long-ago ex not to have called me and set up residence in my fucking head, but . . . yeah.
The man cries out as a thumping sound and crack meet my ears.
“Tizio.” The warning in Nicolo’s voice is low but there.
I exchange looks with him as he flexes his fingers, ready to step in. His face tells me everything. We’re tight-knit, can read each other, and Nicolo thinks Tizio is overstepping for reasons that don’t belong here.
The guy screams as Tizio ignores Nicolo and lands an uppercut to the guy’s chin, snapping his head back into the brick wall where he’s chained.
“Doing that again,” Tizio snarls, “and don’t think anyone will rescue you. This place is soundproof, so . . .”
Another punch. And another.
I sigh. This isn’t my favorite part of the fucking job, unless they really deserve it. It’s not usually Tizio’s, either. It’s what makes us so good at our job. We’re not fucking sadistic. We do the job, and will fucking wipe the floor with the remains, but it’s not for fun.
We have some of those guys.
Lower on the food chain. Usually in the arena of real dirty work when a touch of Armageddon is needed.
“Don’t kill him, Nicolo’s right. Frozen’s gonna want to talk. I say talk, but ya know.”
The guy’s one good eye bugs, he squeals, and that’s when Nicolo shifts into place.
“You okay?”
“Fucking tea party time here, Diego.”
I take that pile of surly as a mind your business.
