Page 1 of Maximum Bet

Chapter 1

Dominic

Beads of sweat roll down my neck as I crouch behind a crate in a decrepit warehouse. The whole place smells like fish and brine. While Atlantic Seafood moved its operations to a modernized facility years ago, remnants of the building’s history linger.

It’s the perfect place for a Mafia hit.

Or in this case, a meeting between Miami’s most notorious crime family, the Angeles de la Misericordia, and the head of the Medina Cartel out of Ensenada, Mexico.

Esteban Perez, the Medina leader, has had beef with me ever since I burned his sprawling Ensenada compound to the ground. In my defense, he was about to sell my future wife into sex slavery. He deserved every bit of what I doled out, and when I get close to him, I will make sure he receives a torturous death.

“Two sedans are headed through the side gates.” Leonardo’s voice crackles through my earpiece. My adviser is stationed in a surveillance van a block over, watching the building through strategically placed cameras.

“Let us know how many people get out. My intel said this meeting should only be between the heads of the organizations,” my cousin, Nico, replies. Until recently, Nico and I had little business together, with him running the Romano family Mafia’s Chicago arm and me running the Las Vegas arm. I guess Esteban Perez shouldn’t have made a deal to sell his product in the Windy City if he didn’t want two bosses coming after him at once.

Next to me, my brother, Marco, groans and shifts in a squat. His six-foot-four, bulky frame isn’t meant to be folded for so long. He’s got one meaty hand bracing himself against the crate, while moisture glistens on his prominent brow.

I consider pulling my gun, having it ready and aimed when Esteban and Santos, the Miami leader, appear, but that’s not what tonight is about. As tempting as it is to take them down, guns blazing, we’re supposed to be doing reconnaissance. If we eliminate them now, we’ll never find our real target, the leader of the Russian Bratva, Anatoliy Kozlova.

“Six all together, four coming in. Get ready.” With the information Leo relays, I tense, holding a hand out to Marco to urge him to steady his shaking frame. He slowly lowers one knee to the concrete, giving him leverage.

Across the warehouse, a slight shuffling indicates Nico receding into the shadows. Metal hinges scream in protest as large doors swing open at the front of the building. Voices speaking in Spanish drift through the space, echoing off the walls as the overhead lights switch on. I crouch lower on instinct, although I am well hidden.

“Gracias por venir.” Santos speaks first, thanking his acquaintance forcoming.

I brace myself, forcing my body against the solid wood of the crate, as my fury builds and every fiber of my being urges me to attack—to kill Esteban Perez.

Except the voice that answers Santos isn’t that of Perez.

A fumbling American with lousy pronunciation gives Santos a “de nada” that would have a high school Spanish teacher rolling their eyes.

I can’t help but whisper, “What the fuck?”

“Shit,” Leo says. “Hold on a second, let me switch views.”

The footsteps inside the warehouse stop, and Santos, clearly picking up on his acquaintance’s lack of Spanish knowledge, switches languages. “Would you prefer English?”

“If you don’t mind.”

I’m tempted to peer around the crate to find out who this person is. I don’t recognize the voice. He sounds young, and the slight waver in his tone indicates his inexperience.

“Mister Callahan, does your boss know you’ve come to meet with me?” Santos asks. The flick of a lighter sounds before someone inhales and exhales, taking their time with the process.

“Uh.” Callahan stalls. I rack my brain for anyone I know by that last name. The only Irish family I work with is based in Boston and run by Cillian O’Shea.

“I didn’t think so.”

More footsteps, then the sound of metal scraping across the ground.

The smoke from a cigar wafts our direction, and I take a chance, peering around the crate. The cigar hangs from Santos’s lips as he rolls his shirt sleeves. He’s a stout man, not one who often lifts weights or jogs. He relies on his enforcers for physicality, one of whom stands to his left, a man who rivals Marco in size.

Leathered skin and wrinkles hint at Santos’s age. He’s weathered from years in the tropical sun. His graying hair is slicked with product, and his soft midsection reflects an overindulgence in his wife’s Cuban cooking.

“Take a seat, Mr. Callahan.”

Santos’s enforcer steps forward, shoving Callahan by the shoulder into a rusted metal chair.

From where I crouch, even I can see the shaking of Callahan’s hands.