Page 29 of Mafia Daddy

And the most dangerous part is that I’m starting to enjoy it.

The Escalade rolls to a stop in the narrow alley behind Onyx, one of the legitimate bars I own in the old warehouse district.

From the outside it looks like any other busy Friday night: bass thumping through the brick walls, laughter spilling out every time the door opens. Inside, it’s even more convincing… packed with locals, hipsters, and off-duty office workers chasing cheap whiskey and louder company.

Exactly how I like it.

A perfect mask for the real business that happens upstairs.

I button my coat and step out, Michael falling in beside me without a word. Two of my soldiers melt out of the shadows to flank us as we enter through the side door.

The crowd parts instinctively. They don’t know who I am, but they feel the shift in the air when I walk through.

Good.

We move past the long mahogany bar and the sea of bodies, then climb the narrow staircase at the back. My security men stationed on the landing nod once and open the heavy office door.

The scene inside is exactly what I expected.

Kobek is standing near the desk. Two more soldiers lean against the wall, knuckles still bloody.

And on the floor, curled in a groaning heap, is a man I don’t recognize… his face swollen, one eye already shut, blood dripping from a split lip onto my expensive rug.

“Pakhan,” Kobek greets me, voice flat.

Michael gestures at the beaten man with his chin. “Cartel spy. We caught him trying to drop down from the roof terrace into the office. He had tools, a burner, and a knife. He wasn’t here for the ambiance, put it that way.”

I step closer. The man lifts his head with obvious effort. His one good eye burns with hatred.

I crouch down in front of him, elbows on my knees, voice calm. “You have one chance to speak. Who sent you? What were you looking for?”

The man spits blood onto the floor, narrowly missing my shoe. “Russian filth,” he rasps. “You think you can carve up the city without paying your dues? The cartel owns these streets now.”

I rise slowly, brushing imaginary dust from my trousers. His defiance is almost admirable. Almost.

“Show our guest the exit,” I tell the soldiers. “The quick one. No need to make him walk through the crowds downstairs.”

The spy’s eyes widen as the implication hits. He starts cursing in rapid Spanish, struggling as my men haul him up by the arms.

I watch as my men drag him toward the wide patio doors that open onto the roof terrace. I follow, Michael and Kobek right behind me. The cool night air hits us as we step outside.

Three stories below, the alley is dark and empty except for a couple of dumpsters.

The soldiers don’t hesitate. They lift the man between them, swing once for momentum, and throw him over the low railing.

The scream is short. The impact is a sickening thud against wet concrete.

I lean over the edge and look down. The body lies twisted and motionless.

Good enough.

“Take the body,” I order. “Dump it somewhere it will be found before sunrise. The cartel needs to understand they cannot play games with me. Not in my city.”

The soldiers nod and disappear back inside to handle the cleanup. I stay on the terrace a moment longer, staring out over the rooftops. The distant glow of the financial district twinkles like nothing violent just happened three floors below us.

Michael joins me at the railing.

“Trouble is brewing faster than we thought,” Michael warns. “The cartel doesn’t usually move this boldly without provocation. Not unless they smell weakness.”