Page 30 of Fatal Scheme

“You. Get over here and keep him quiet.” I wave my gun equipped with a silencer attachment at the other kid, whose face has gone ghostly white in the face of adversity, it likely being his first time in the presence of a real threat.

Thankfully, he’s too afraid of me to disobey, and he clamps his palm over the mouth of the bleeding idiot, and we both lift him off the ground, carrying him outside of the restaurant.

“Run the software,” I say into my ear piece, photos of both men sent to Tyson’s phone as I patiently await to find out everything we can about them before I end their pathetic lives.

Tyson relays the information, and I get started, easily finding leverage to hold over their heads.

“Did your little pals tell you who you were fucking with?” I start, knowing I need to get to the point, but don’t have much time before someone realizes that they’re missing.

“I’m just muscle man, I don’t know a damn thing,” the chef says, wincing in pain as his leg continues to bleed onto the concrete.

“What’s the next target?” I ask, pressing the barrel of my gun into his kneecap, and he starts singing like a damn canary.

“Emory,” he chokes out, his face pale from the blood loss.

“Emory, what? The town, the college, you’re going to have to be more specific,” I urge, knowing that the fight is heading straight for our doorstep.

“I … I don’t … that’s all I know,” he rushes to explain, tripping over his words out of fear, something I decipher as genuine.

Satisfied, I decide to make it quick, shooting one bullet into the center of his forehead, not even bothering to question him further.

“Please. I don’t know anything either,” the other kid annoyingly begs, and I decide to have a little fun, yanking him up by his shirt.

“You’re going to help me, and if you think of something useful to say, I might let you live,” I warn, and he nods furiously, eager to please even though there’s no chance he makes it through the next hour.

“Start from the beginning, and lift his body,” I command, and wouldn’t you know, he actually has insightful information to share.

“The Ricci’s hired us to kill your men and infiltrate the ports. Other than that, I don’t know anything about Emory, your college, or what Mr. Ricci is planning next,” he confesses, and just after we prop the dead body up alongside their dumpster, I aim my weapon at his head, dropping him right next to his friend.

“Catch all of that, Ty?” I ask into my earpiece, and he confirms, allowing me to clean up the shell casings and get the hell out of here.

It’s only our first stop in what will likely be a long, bloody night, but I remind myself that I was quite literally born to do this, and there’s nobody better for the job.

Now that we have intel that Emory is the next target, my sole purpose is to protect Tyson and Carter, meaning she’ll temporarily be moving into the frat house, whether that be willingly, or kicking and screaming.

It’s non-negotiable, though, because we have the means and the weapons to protect her.

These two kids seemed like easy hires off the street, but Ricci is calculated, and if he’s been digging into us, there’s a chance he knows about our girl, a lucky break for someone searching for weaknesses.

Not to be underestimated, or outdone, Antonio Ricci only recently gained power after his very loud battle with the Corazza family, a war that ended with him ordering the execution of his own son.

For what hasn’t quite leaked into the rumor mill, but a man like that can never be counted on to behave rationally, something the Masseria’s know all too well, considering that we’re the one he set his sights on.

I’d lay down my life to protect Ty, and now that declaration includes Carter, too, and I’ll be damned if I fail the only mission that’s important enough to die over.

SIXTEEN

TYSON

Once Massi found out that Emory was the next target, he became a man on a murder spree, knocking out eight men in what could be dubbed as a successful night.

A message has been sent, letting the Ricci’s know that we’re not going down without a fight, and not to underestimate a family that’s been running this quadrant of the Hudson for the last few decades.

Thankfully, Massi kept me on the sidelines, not needing my help as he took out some pent up aggression on his victims – in various, yet creative, ways.

Even so, as we pull off the highway toward campus, I’m not quite on board with the final phase of tonight’s mission.

“Massi, she’s going to bite your head off, spit it out, and then stab at your eyes with a butter knife,” I warn, but he just laughs, something utterly maniacal as the rush of the kill always brings out a very strange side of him, a view I’ve had a front row seat to more times than I can count.