Page 64 of Mafia Devil

It’s morning. It’s time to get things moving…

The following day the city looks washed and mean beyond Dmitri’s office glass.

I sit in his chair because there is no other seat that appeals to me quite so much...

Leather. High back. The smell of him in the arms.

A laptop is open on the carved desk. The window is a single operatic pane that delivers me towers, bridges, snow still clinging to ledges like the storm has not decided to leave.

I am supposed to be working.

And I am doing just that…

Contacts. Old ones. Dangerous ones. People who owe me a favor or think they do. I’ve got a few lined up, that’s for sure.

A bartender in a Lucci haunt who likes to talk when the tip is right.

A driver who used to move product for a Greek crew and now drinks too much in the wrong cafés.

I type. I delete. I type again. The plan is simple enough to say and ugly enough to live inside: meet Tito, lay a trap, let Dmitri take it from there.

My neck still tingles from where he bit me in the front seat of the Mercedes. I can feel the bruise every time I turn my head toward the glass. I should hate how much I like it, but the truth is that I crave the sensation.

The phone pings. Zane. The thread is already ugly. I know full well this will be a last chance. A do not play me. I know how this works…

ZANE: Today. I am done waiting. You have the file or you don’t. If you don’t, we are going to have a different conversation.

My stomach drops the way it always does when a man like Zane decides the friend zone is no longer entertaining him and all debts are called in.

I hover over the phone’s keyboard.

I am about to stall him again—one more lie, one more hour—when the office door opens.

Dmitri.

He looks impeccable. Dark shirt. No tie. But all business. The look of a man who has already been awake too long and used the hours well. He takes in the laptop, the window, the way I am sitting in his chair like I belong in it. Then he glances at my phone screen.

“Confirm the meeting,” he says. Not a question.

I look at him. “Now?”

“Now.”

I type…

ELIAS: Today. Park. The usual bench by the south gate. I’ll have what you need. We’ll make the transaction and shake hands on it.

The reply is almost instant.

ZANE: Finally. Don’t be late. And it will be me who says when this is settled, don’t go getting any ideas above your station. That’s when miscommunications happen and people get hurt.

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter.

I lock the screen and turn the chair.

“What do you want me to do with your details in the file?” I ask as I turn to Dmitri. “Omit you like I said I would? Or⁠—”

“No. Keep my name in,” Dmitri says. He comes to the window and stands close enough that I can smell espresso and cold air on him. “Give them a false time. A window that looks real. If they come for me at that hour, we will know Zane is not only a fixer but something more serious. We will know he is feeding the Lucci.”