19. Simon

The night wind's cold against my neck. I'm hunkered down in my car in the parking lot of a fast food place. It's past three in the morning and the place has been closed for a couple of hours now. The streets are empty and the lights in this part of town are mostly out. Driving through West Roseland, I saw more boarded-up homes, more smashed street signs, and more cars up on blocks than in most other neighborhoods in the city. And this place isn't supposed to be all that bad.

None of that matters. I'm focused on a building across the street. It's a brick structure, newly constructed in the last decade, with all the windows covered by heavy curtains and heavy bars over the front door. It looks dead, except there are lights on inside, and the parking lot behind it has seven cars in total, plus a few more on the street. It's the only building in the whole area that's clean and hasn't been touched by graffiti.

I close my eyes and my blood pounds into my ears. I keep thinking about Emily's story, about her father getting scammed, about all the shit he went through and all the shit she's currently going through to make things right for him. That level of love, that level of loyalty, that's fucking admirable.

And a part of me wants to punish the people responsible. I can't know who it was for sure since the local scam trade's been growing these past few years, but I can at least send a message.

Scamming old people won't be tolerated. Not in my fucking city.

"You awake?" Davide's voice comes over the radio I have tossed on the passenger seat. I peer out the window and spot him parked across the way in the street.

"I'm good," I tell him. "How are the guys? Everyone ready?"

"They're getting impatient." There's static from the walkie. "I think it's time."

I check my watch and nod to myself. At this point in the evening, the team inside that pristine building should be wrapped up for the day. They do most of their work in the afternoons, but they have a night team ready to take over in case any jobs require special attention. They must be busy right now, because there are more cars than I would've guessed.

Which pisses me off.

"Two minutes," I radio Davide. "Get the guys ready to go."

I walk through my preparations: gun loaded, body armor strapped, knives in place just in case shit goes really wrong. My phone's in my pocket, but it's powered off and the battery's removed, just like everyone else on this mission. No cell tower pings, no paper trails.

Elation runs through me. It's always like this before a big hit. But for the first time, I'm not thinking about myself.

I'm picturing Emily back home worrying her pretty little head off, wondering if I'll come home to her in one piece.

And I'm thinking about her father giving away everything he had because a few good liars convinced him to take a chance on a dream.

I kick open my car door and close it. Around me, other cars come to life, as the team spreads out and surrounds the building. I spot Davide walking among the men, standing at least a head taller than everyone, his muscular and hulking frame like a demon straight from hell. I love my brother, but goddamn, he's one scary motherfucker.

And he goes first. He always goes first. We line up outside the front door while one of our specialists, a guy named Antonio, picks the lock on the gate. It takes only a few seconds, but those seconds seem to last forever; a car could drive by at this moment, spot a dozen armed and armored men lined up on the sidewalk, and decide to call the cops. That'd be a real pain in the ass.

I meet Davide's eye once Antonio's done and give him a nod.

My brother yanks the door open. I drop to one knee, jerk the tab off a nondescript black canister, and roll it inside.

We've done this a thousand times. It goes like a ballet. Everyone turns and shields their eyes as the flashbang explodes with a deafening roar and a blinding light, and folks start screaming inside. Davide's already through, gun up and screaming at the people to get on the ground, and I'm right behind him.

The place looks like a call center. Long tables with rows of computers and people with headsets staring at the screens with blank, dull stares, almost bored. There's a manager's office in the back, and a whiteboard displays names and numbers, probably some fucking sick competition to see who can steal the most.

Because this isn't a normal call center.

"On the fucking ground," I say, wrenching a young man away from his station and slamming him down. I put a knee in his back, my gun against his head, and I scan the area.

"Simon!" Davide shouts, and it's just in time. I throw myself sideways as gunfire erupts from the corner of the office. There's a security guard, an old guy in a blue-and-white uniform, and his hands are shaking as he pops off a gun that looks like it's way too big for his skinny hands. If Davide hadn't yelled, he might've blown off my head.

Instead, he took down a computer monitor, sending glass and sparks shooting into the air, before several of our guys put their own bullets in him. The guard's blood splatters the wall, painting it red as he slumps down to the ground.

I get to my feet and shrug off my brother. "The manager," I say through my teeth. One of the workers tries to stand, a middle-aged man with a paunch and bags under his eyes, but I slam the butt of my gun into his mouth, crumpling him to the ground. I barely even pause. Let the old fuck choke on his teeth for all I care.

These people are scum. These are the cretins that stole from Emily's dad. Maybe not the exact crew, but a group just like them, a bunch of pathetic people willing to do disgusting jobs to earn a little cash. And the worst of them all is the manager, a slick-looking guy in his thirties in a polo shirt and a pair of black slacks. He looks like he spends half his life in the gym, and he's down on his knees with his hands in the air when I kick open the door to his office.

"Please, we just work for them," he says, terror in his face as I grab him by his thinning hair and yank him to his feet. I hold the gun against his head. In the other room, Davide's people have the remaining employees rounded up and standing against the back wall while our tech crew scours the computers, downloading anything that might be useful.

"Shut your fucking mouth," I tell the manager and shove him back into the other room. Davide goes along with me, looking bemused as I kick the back of the manager's knees and make him face his employees.

Everyone's staring at me. All of them, including the man with the bloody mouth. They're horrified, scared for their lives. A couple of women are crying. Let them sob like their victims. I press the gun to the back of the manager's head.

"You people make me sick," I say, meeting their gazes. "Each and every one of you deserves a bullet to the brain."

"No, please don't," the manager moans, trembling so hard his head keeps banging up against the barrel of my gun. "I just work for them. I just work for them!"

"For who?" I ask, leaning down to speak right into his ear. "Tell me who you work for."

"Santoro," he says, moaning the name. "I work for the Santoro Famiglia!"

Just had to be sure.

I stand back and pull the trigger.

The manager's head explodes in a shower of brain matter and bone fragments. The workers scream and one of the women pukes on her shoes as the manager's corpse slumps over to the side.

My men barely pause in what they're doing.

Davide's at my side then, pushing my gun down. He gives me a hard look. "That wasn't part of the plan," he says quietly.

"Fuck the plan." I turn away toward the door. "Get the data. Two minutes." I shove my gun back into its holster and walk out into the cool night air.

Our soldiers are good. We've been working them to the bone these last few months ever since things with Santoro's organization popped off. They filter out of the building one at a time, hurrying to their cars but not running, everyone staying calm and in control. Davide's the last one out, and he shuts the door behind him.

"The rest of them are fine," he says as we walk back to the parking lot. He pauses outside of my car. "Why'd you kill the manager?"

"He pissed me off." I stare at the glass, at my own reflection. I look tired and angry. "I know we do plenty of fucked-up shit. We sell drugs, we extort, we blackmail. But there's something about the scam call centers I fucking hate."

"They're big business." Davide cocks his head. "But I agree with you. I don't care that the fucker is dead in there, but you know Dad's going to be pissed. He doesn't want to provoke Uncle Santoro more than necessary."

I grimace slightly at the way Davide calls him uncle. There's a long, dark history between them, and I think part of the way his trauma manifests is through his stubborn refusal to drop the title. We all let it go, but sometimes it's hard.

"Dad will survive. Santoro's coming for us eventually whether we kill some of his people or not."

"But now you're speeding things up." Davide shakes his head. In the distance, a siren wails. The employees must've called the cops. "Be careful. That's all I'm saying."

I look at my brother and hold his gaze. "You have my back," I say. It's not a question, but he knows what it means.

When my dad first got injured, I took over as the Don. I was the one who got our revenge, who took the fight to Santoro. I was the one who marshaled the Famiglia and made sure blood flowed for what they did to our father. Except then Dad took over and he cooled things off, and ever since then, Davide and I have been waiting for the violence to come around again.

He knows Dad's too weak to win this war. We love our father and want him to get better, but Davide can see the signs as clearly as I can. Our father isn't the leader he used to be, but the Famiglia's going to need a strong Don if it's going to survive what's coming.

I want to be sure I can trust my brother moving forward.

But it's hard to know what he'll really do. It's one thing to push back against our father's orders, and it's another to back me over the old man. Even I find the idea distasteful; all my life, I've been nothing but a good, dutiful son, and a loyal, obedient soldier. Following orders is baked into my blood. The thought of doing anything against my father's wishes?—

It's hard to imagine.

Slowly though, Davide nods. "I have your back," he confirms. Then without another word, he stalks off to his car.

It should make me feel better, knowing that my brother understands what has to be done, but it doesn't. I can only muster a vague sickness at the thought of Davide getting pulled into this mess.

I get behind the wheel and start to drive away from the sirens.