Indebted to the Mafia King

Dante

I check the cylinder on my second pistol-full-and slide it back into place with a click. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I put my eye to the sniper sight Tony set up on the apartment roof across from the Russian warehouse Cal showed

us.

"We're trusting Cal Duncan?" Tony asks.

"You got another fucking option?" I reply.

His sharp sigh behind me tells me I've already won. I knew I was going to. If we give the Russians more than twenty-four hours, we look weak. But we don't know shit about their operations, other than this warehouse. Assuming Cal was telling the truth. And if I'm being honest, I think Cal's more likely to give us the warehouse of another syndicate, on the off chance he lied, so at least I don't have the deaths of civilians to worry about. I lean back from the sight. Tony stands behind me, along with Seb and three other capos. Seb's just about vibrating out of his skin, being taken on an all-capo mission. Tony said it wasn't a good idea, but his induction is next weekend. He's already a made man, I just haven't announced it.

"Tony, Raf, take the side entrance," I say. "Mikey, Dice, the back. Seb and I have the front."

They nod, even Seb, who's struggling to stay professional. Mikey's not a capo I call in often. He lives with his wife in Paterson, just over the border into Jersey, and he's the capo I call when I think some shit I'm about to put my foot in might spill over to the families out there. I thought about just warning him, but I decided more guns would be better, and so many of my regular people are split between cleaning up Piacere and watching Eleni.

I check both my pistols one last time. Camila could be in there. I doubt it, but I can't be sure. Am I ready to kill her?

The ring on my finger shines dully in the darkness. El wasn't at Piacere, but she could've been and the last thing I need is Russians circling close to home. I'll do whatever I need to do. "Move," I say.

We troop down through the building, out onto the street, then split into our three groups. Surveillance says there shouldn't be more than a couple dozen Russians. They might be crazy, but crazy doesn't have shit on planning. I pop an earpiece into my ear.

"Alpha."

"Beta," Tony answers.

"Sigma," Mikey mutters.

"Count of three," I say. "One."

Seb meets my eye, heft his semi-auto, and winks. It's like I'm taking him to an amusement park, not a firefight. It's kind of sweet.

"Two."

He takes aim at the doorknob.

"Three." I raise my gun, and we shoot the lock and knob in unison. The door swings jaggedly back.

Matching explosions on the other sides of the building tell me the other two teams did the same. I shoulder open the door, Seb on my heels, and storm inside. A bullet slices past my head and lodges in the cement wall behind me. "Fuck!" Seb shouts.

Waste of energy. I dive behind one of the many shelves stacked with boxes and pull him with me. Gunfire echoes off the high ceiling, and I peer around a box to try to get a lay of the land.

The black muzzle of a rifle stares back at me. I whip behind the box just in time to feel two shots thud into it. Something white fills the air, and my heart skips a beat.

"Coke." I loosen my tie and yank my shirt up over my mouth and nose. "Watch your breathing."

Seb follows suit automatically. There are more Russians than I thought, and they're as balls to the wall as their reputation promises. I'd do almost anything before shooting the product. Still, the cloud gives some cover. I lean around the other side of the box and see a figure in something other than the all-black of my men moving. I squeeze off two shots. The figure jerks and falls with a Russian curse.

I smile. Seb starts to leave, and I whip around as he ducks back. With a smile, he shows me what he grabbed. A fucking pen.

"What-"

He launches it away from us, high, then scuttles to the side Tony's door isn't on. Smart. I follow him, escaping the cloud of drugs kicking my heart rate higher. We slide between shelves, and I take out another Russian. Seb, ahead of me, comes up behind a third and puts two bullets in the base of his spine before he can yell. I grin at him. I knew he could fucking handle this.

Away from the front door, we have a lot more space to play. Russians prowl forward, waiting for us to emerge from the cloud of cocaine. We slice through shelving units, circling them like avenging angels, and body after body falls at our feet. In the back of my mind, I note details. A couple of laptops on that table. Scales over there, next to plastic wrap and baggies. A drug operation, obviously. And a big enough one to warrant a warehouse rather than a basement. How the fuck didn't I notice this? The Saints only dabble in drugs-they're hard to justify, easy to get caught with, and less valuable than most of the luxury products we ship-but I try to keep an eye on the corners. Am I losing my fucking touch? "Dante!" Seb shouts.

Yes, it seems, I am. I stopped in the middle of a fucking firefight to look at drug paraphernalia like a jackass. I turn toward the sound of Seb's voice in what feels like slow motion and spot the lanky, tattooed Russian the second after his gun goes off.

I finally have my life together. I'm happy. I'm looking forward to the future. Maybe this is why all the grizzled older bosses I've met have looked miserable. Maybe being miserable is the only way to survive this life. I close my eyes and wait for the pain.

Something slams into me, but not like a bullet. Like a fucking body that knocks me to the ground, jars my skull against the cement floor. The front of my suit grows wet, but nothing hurts. I pry open my eyes.

The something on top of me is Seb, bleeding heavily from the bullet spray across his chest. He fucking jumped in front of me. I meet Tony's gaze over the shoulder of the Russian who shot Seb, and I know the priorities have changed. We have to get Seb out before he pays my price.