Page 137 of Twisted Vows

“Later’s dead,” I say, my voice flat. “No survivors.”

The quiet that follows isn’t approval but understanding. The kind soldiers share before a suicide run.

Hours later, flames claw at the night sky.

The Volkov warehouse combusts…orange and red against black water. Heat radiates across the dock, intense enough to feel from fifty yards out. Thick, acrid smoke billows, choking the air.

Inside, men shriek. High-pitched. Desperate. The cries of trapped animals dying.

I stand at the water’s edge, surveying. My reflection flickers in the harbor, fire dancing across my face and casting shadows that give me the appearance of someone else. Unrecognizable. One by one, the screaming stops, until there’s only the roar of flames consuming wood and flesh.

Marco shifts beside me on the rooftop. “Boss…”

I don’t respond. Can’t look away.

I should feel something. Guilt. Regret. Horror.

Instead, I feel nothing. Just the heat.

Marco has a radio pressed to his ear. “Brooklyn team reports clear. Second depot secured. We’ve got prisoners.”

“Bring them.”

The interrogation occurs in a shipping container down by the docks, the air thick with diesel and iron. One man’s already bleeding from the mouth. Another shakes so badly that his teeth chatter.

“Start talking,” Marco commands.

I stay quiet at first, observing. Silence often works better than threats to get people’s mouths moving.

The younger one cracks first. “It was a payoff! Miami contact. Something about Martinelli’s death.” His accent thickens as fear takes over. “We were told to kill anyone who looked too close.”

The room tilts. Miami. At the mention of that single word, Dante’s ghost stirs. My hands flex. “Who gave the order?”

“No names,” he stammers. “Only heard the command. They said someone wanted Ricci silenced. It was an agreement with our Pakhan.”

“You’re lying.”

He shakes his head violently, crying now. The other man remains foolishly stubborn. Brass knuckles resolve that in two hits. His teeth scatter across the metal floor like dice.

Eventually, all our prisoners talk. The truth seeps out between sobs and split skin. A Miami payoff, hush money, and a cover-up that reaches deeper than expected.

Afterward, I wash my hands in the sink of a backroom bar. The soap smells like bleach and cheap whiskey. Blood clings anyway, sticky in the creases of my knuckles.

Two hours later, I’m summoned to the main house.

Under the heavy glow of chandelier light, the dons’ meeting drags on, the table crowded with suits, suspicion, and power. Gabi sits at the head, his face drawn, his patience thinner than the cigars he burns through.

I report succinctly. No theatrics. “Two warehouses down. Three captains dead. Accounts seized.” My tone doesn’t rise or falter. Just delivers facts like bullets.

The air thickens. Gabi leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. His gold ring with the family crest catches the light, and those cold eyes narrow. His jaw works, muscle twitching beneath the skin as his fingers drum once against the wood. “You’ve gone too far.”

Marco, sitting off to the side, remains silent, his jaw tight.

I meet Gabi’s stare. “Too far is the only way to guarantee that they finally feel it. That’s when they negotiate.”

One of the older dons mutters about restraint. Another mentions optics.

I laugh under my breath. “Optics don’t bury sons, do they?”