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“What’s going on, Donnelly? Did someone finally challenge your incompetence?” the boy’s father said.
“Nope, we compared dick sizes just yesterday, and I still came out on top, but I heard you’re getting the officials doing your dirty work for you, now. Getting lazy or scared?”
Hawk chuckled.
But the wiry guy just shrugged. “The Sormiza Cartel boys are a bunch of spoiled brats who needed to be taken down a notch. I’m just giving them a war they can’t win to occupy them for a while.”
“While you swoop in and take over their drug trade routes?” Hawk said.
The guy shrugged. “At least I’m not completely unhinged. And I’m not obsessed with your friend’s woman.”
Hawk narrowed his eyes. “So, it’s common knowledge old Sormiza has his eyes on her?”
Holy shit. They were talking about Hawk’s partner Carter’s wife Edith. And about old Sormiza, the head of the Sormiza cartel, who tried and failed to kidnap her.
The guy chuckled. “The old fuck and his obsession have been the inside joke for years. Some have lost an obscene amount of money, betting on if and when he will make a move.” He shook his head. “He should step down, but since you’re taking out his boys one after the other, that’s not likely to happen.”
I side-glanced at Hawk, who just shrugged. They were talking about George taking out the younger Sormiza son.
How did they all know this stuff?
It was as if they were all connected. Did they have a group chat where they were discussing organized crime around the world?
“So, let’s get the niceties out of the way,” Vincenzo said.
“Roman Zotov—head of the Russian Bratva—it’s cheesy, but he’s residing in Brighton Beach.”
Okay, apparently, I needed to brush up on my organized crime knowledge, ASAP. Because why would residing in Brighton Beach be considered cheesy?
“Pedro Alvarez, CDS, Craig Donnelly, head of the Irish Mob out of Boston, and Hawk, the global white knight who hasn’t gotten himself killed as of yet—but having his hands in all kinds of pots will surely lead to it.”
Wait. CDS? The wiry guy was the head of the Sinaloa Cartel? Now I got it.
“This is Gabriele Falcone—rightful heir of the Italian Falcone family. Ready to take over the throne,” Hawk said.
Wait, what?
“Wait.” I stared Hawk down, and he stared back, his eyes glimmering and hard. Daring me to contradict him openly.
Didn’t I tell him just minutes ago it was a fuck no? And now what—now he’d told every boss of every single crime organization in the US I would do it.
The fucker had played me.
Trapped me.
Fuck.
I should’ve known. Should’ve seen it coming. Hawk was a masterful puppet player. Pulling strings, thinking ten steps ahead. Always coming out on top. But why this? Why risk his reputation for me? “Seriously? That’s how you want to play this?”
Hawk grinned. “You needed a shove in the right direction.”
“And on second thought.” I turned away from Hawk before the urge to deck him right here became too strong to resist. “Can anyone enlighten me on why the Irish mob, US Bratva, the biggest cartel, and the head of the Italian Mafia in the US just meet up like this?”
Hawk sighed, in a you’ve-got-a-lot-to-learn-kiddo kind of way, I didn’t much appreciate.
I gave him my best shut-up glare—and it worked.
The asshole had earned my loyalty—didn’t mean loyalties couldn’t change.
