Exiting the car, I grab the black leather gloves that match my signature jacket. Though today, I leave the jacket behind. With my hand wrapped around my Glock, I slam the door shut, tuck the pistol and gloves in my waistband, and inch forward. They’ve been waiting for me and based on the anger seeping from my father over the phone, things aren’t adding up.
There was a plan, and someone fucked up royally. I keep my cool and take one wide step up the three stairs leading to the platform. The warehouse door is heavy and creaks when I open it. The silence on the other side is eerie. The air is stale, and in the middle of the open space is an old rusty metal table, a single chair, and a black cargo van.
Tony, my father’s point man in South Beach, is next to the back of the vehicle, staring down at the dealer. Both men glance at me—Tony over his shoulder, and Armon cranes his neck to look around Tony.
The Russos dabble in a little of everything. But guns and girls are our specialties—well, guns are my specialty. My father can have what comes with running women. I’ll pass on that. Violence is more my speed, and weapons are the best way to enforce that.
We supply the entire East Coast and most of Italy. Tony was tasked with closing the deal with our new contact, Armon Trentino, a low-level street thug who joined the military. Old habits die hard, and ole Armon here soon figured out that selling military-grade weapons paid handsomely—a shit ton better than the US government.
“Where in the hell have you been?” Tony barks at me.
I stare at him with my jaw clenched and my hands balled into fists. Tony straightens his spine and passes me a quick and apologetic wave. He knows my temper better than anyone, so he should have known better than to question me. He may work for my father, but I’m the one in charge. Shit happens on my word, and nobody wants to piss me off.
Things are better when I’m happy—or my rendition of it. Anger me, and people die, and I really don’t feel like killing anyone today. It’s messy, and the cleanup can be a pain.
“Armon.”
“Christian, man, listen—”
I hold up a finger to silence him. “Shh.” I continue, not stopping until I’m only a foot away from Tony. Armon stays quiet. Smart. Clearly, he knows enough not to push me. “What’s this I hear about a problem with our shipment?” I ask, my tone even.
The farther I get into the room, the staler the surrounding air becomes. Dusk covers every inch of the place, and the walls are barren with chipped, dingy gray paint that was once a shade of white.
Pulling my gloves on one at a time, I stare both men down. Tony knows where this is going, and so does Armon. Sweat lines the dealer’s face. He knows he fucked up, and his flight-or-fight instinct is taking over, but he’s cornered. There is nowhere for him to go, and it’s exactly how I like it.
“Speak,” I say once I have my gloves on.
“Like I was telling Tony, there was a mix-up.”
“Hm.” I nod. “Go on.”
Armon shrugs, his eyes filled with fear. “I don’t have all the guns.”
With my brows hiked up and my lips pursed together, I nod once more. “You see how this is a problem, right?’
“It was out of my control, Christian.”
I glance over my shoulder at Tony, who gives me a disapproving shrug. “That doesn’t work for me.”
“There was nothing I could do,” he protests.
“Sure, there was. We paid the deposit, and it’s your job to deliver. Now, I was in the middle of something rather important, something I had to set aside to be here with the likes of you. And you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do?” I ask while circling him. Reaching for my gun, I release the safety and cock it.
“How about I drop the—”
Bang.
The sound of my gun rings against the walls, echoing around us.
“Argh,” Armon yells, his cries coming out gargled and drenched in his pain.
“Fucking shit!” Tony yells, my actions catching him off guard as well.
Armon’s body drops where he stands, and he grabs his knee, the color draining from him right along with the blood. Long ropes of red seep through his fingertips, and the sweat that lined his forehead is now a flowing stream down his face.
Now back in front of him, I hover over his weak excuse for a vessel. Surveying his features and the lines of agony written all over his mug, I grip my weapon tighter and kneel. With bated breaths, Armon scoots back but immediately collapses as all the energy he has leaves his body.
I watch the blood for a second, mentally following its path as it pools on the floor around him. His screams grow louder, his voice rattling my eardrums. When I look back at Tony, he shakes his head. He should be used to the way I work by now—a man like me thrives on the pain of others. What did he expect? If I must step in and handle something he should have, then blood will always spill.