PROLOGUE

FRANKIE

Two Years Ago

Working off outdated intel was never good, especially when the source was in question. There was more leeway questioning my father now. It used to be a death sentence.

Unlike my brothers in the family business, I only had one job.

And my father had ordered it.

There was a small gang rising inside a former Philly industrial area. They were stepping on Borgesi toes; we owned that area.

Parked outside an abandoned Chinese restaurant, I watched for any movement. Gangs like these usually holed up in empty buildings, often using them as grow houses or crack dens.

I sucked deep until the cigarette in the corner of my mouth burned to the filter.

Tonight, I played executioner. A slug to the head, followed by a call to the family butcher who disposed of them. I didn't get involved there, I wasn't a cleaner, although my methods were usually clean.

"I'm coming for you," I whispered, pushing out smoke. I stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray on the center console. "Assholes."

In the dead of night with only dim streetlights dotted further and further apart, I climbed out of the car. I adjusted myself in the reflection of the black BMW. I dressed smart. Suited with a nice thin black tie. It was formal, almost like attending a funeral. And here, I stuck out like a sore thumb, but there was nobody around. I told myself to be in and out within ten minutes, anything longer and the police could arrive.

Checking myself over, I had my sheathed serrated knife, my brass knuckles, and my weapon of choice, a Berretta 92FS equipped with a silencer.

The windows inside the restaurant were boarded up with old newspapers. I went around the back.

The cobbled alley stank of trash and urine, made worse by the early summer temperatures. There were hefty bags outside the large metal door leading to the restaurant. I knew someone was here, even if it didn't look like they'd come back tonight.

Inspecting the door, I noticed a slip of cardboard suppressing the lock from latching. This must've been how they were able to operate from here without a key. I pulled the handle slowly, opening the door.

The smell stifled me, almost forcing me back a couple steps. It was worse. Rotting flesh. I took a moment to twist the silencer on my gun. Holding it up, I covered my nose and mouth with my arm. It was obvious they'd neglected to clean the freezer before leaving.

Careful with each step, I prepared to find the crack bandits. This was more than just them being on Borgesi territory, this was also about them cutting their product to the point it was killing more people than it was making addicts.

There was no sign of life on the restaurant floor, or any of the backrooms. There were roaches and rats scurrying everywhere. I slowly tugged the freezer door shut, but the smell had permeated through everything.

I found the door to the basement, ajar, a small blue light flashing behind it.

Rolling my shoulders, I sucked in a slow breath, trying not to think about what I was breathing in, just enough to steady myself and focus my mind.

Pushing the door, it squeaked.

Of course, it fucking squeaked.

I couldn't hear anything down there.

Stepping down each of the creaking wooden steps toward the light, I was ready to point and shoot.

On the floor of the basement, the light had come from a small blue camping light. It illuminated enough to see that this was where they'd been based. There was a table with a couple cocaine bricks, a propane tank and a large metal pan from where they boiled and cut cocaine to make crack.

Someone must've tipped them off. It looked like they'd been in a rush to leave.

A heavy breathing sob came out.

I turned on my heel, directing my gun at the source.

In the far corner, on a tattered mattress, there was a body covered by a cloth sack. A man, I assumed. His hands were tied to a rope that hung down from a meat hook on the ceiling. His torso was held up as his chin pressed against his chest. He was blindfolded.

Grabbing the blue camping light, I approached him. His legs were covered in bruises. I tugged the sack away to reveal lesions and sores covering his skin.

Spooked. He jumped, scooting toward the wall. "Please," he sobbed. "I don't want to."

"Kid," I said, crouching. I continued to inspect his body. They'd done a number on him, and most of them seemed like stubbed cigarette burns. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"Who—who—who are you?"

"I'm going to reach for your blindfold," I told him. "Don't be alarmed. I have a gun. Now, tell me when the last time you heard them was?"

His body shivered. "I haven't heard them in—in a while. My—my body hurts. I don't know what day it is."

"It's May the 22nd." I pulled the blindfold over his head.

"No." Tears filled his eyes. He pushed back against the brick wall. "Are you—are you sure?"

I reached into my suit and grabbed my knife. "I'm Frankie," I told him, trying not to look at the mess those men had made of his naked body. I placed the serrated side of the blade against the rope and cut through it.

"I'm—I'm Cal," he said, his arms dropping by his side. "I thought—I thought I was going to die." He cried out in pain. I knew the strain that had on his limbs.

"It's ok, it's all ok," I said, taking his hand and rubbing my thumb on it. I didn't want to tell him that if I hadn't come down, I assumed someone would've come to collect what had been left. "Nobody is gonna hurt you again. Not on my watch," I told him. "Do you know who did this?"

He sobbed, trying to raise his weak arms. "I—I—" I could wrap my entire hand around the top of his arm. He was going to waste away.

"It's ok," I said, slipping the knife back into my pocket. "I have some clothes in the trunk of my car. Let's get you out. You're under my protection now." I felt something more for him, deep in the pit of my stomach was the need to protect him. "Can you stand?" I knew it was a stupid question; there was no muscle left on him to do anything.

His sobs became harder.

"I've got you."

I picked him up. Assuring me how dangerously light his body was.

"I'm sorry," he said, struggling to keep his head up.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I told him, pressing his head to my chest for support.

I took him out to my car and laid him down in the back. He flinched as I came back to him with clothes, they were clean, it was what I'd planned on wearing to the gym later. A pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt. His body was limp as I dressed him.

"I'm gonna get you cleaned up," I said. "And you need to eat. Then you can try telling me what happened." He nodded slowly, still laid across the backseats. "I'll be five minutes, don't leave."

"Ok," he offered back, weakly.

I had to get back into the restaurant to take their cocaine bricks. If I couldn't get them, I was going to take their supply, and there were people within the family who could try and get a trace on where this came from, and then we could find their supplier.

Cal hadn't moved when I got back. He flinched once more as I opened the door and begged not to be hurt. I never got emotional, but this one hit me hard.

"I'm taking you to my place," I told him. "Nobody is going to hurt you ever again. I promise."

I had so many questions. Like, how could someone hurt him? What had he done to deserve this? I needed answers.