Page 2 of Broken Princess

Benny is our demolitions expert. Imagine the excitement of an eager puppy chasing a tennis ball, and that’s Benny with a detonator in his hand. The joy he gets from blowing shit up is immense. Sinclair is dark; charcoal black hair, Mediterranean complexion, and amber eyes. Conversely, Benny is essentially a vampire. Auburn hair, striking green eyes and skin so pale he would likely burst into flames if he went outside at midday. He’s like a taller red-haired version of Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, if Spike lived at the gym.

My phone vibrates and I pull it out of my pocket, finding our instructions from Max have come through. “Clean up on Aisle Five,” I say, repeating the green light they’ve given me for tonight’s mission.

I have no fucking clue what’s going on. Max has been visiting his father Salvatore more and more frequently this last month, so I know the De Lucas are up to something. No one seems to be privy to all the details outside of those two. We’ve been on standby for a clean-up for the last week. Max has blocked any other requests for our services while we waited for his call.

“Do we have any idea what this is about yet?” Sinclair says with a sigh, not taking his eyes off the screen. His rigid posture is my only indication that he’s less than happy with our being at Max’s beck and call.

“Yeah, what gives? I’m bored out of my mind,” says Benny. He pops his head around the refrigerator door like a meerkat leaving its burrow, his arms overflowing with various foods—none of which look like they’d go well together.

“No, but we’ll know within the hour,” I respond, “and put that all back. We’ve got to leave now. I’m gonna get Nico, I’ll meet you in the car.”

Nico is the last of our team and specialises in inquisition. At six-four he’s our resident giant, benching more than me these days and scary as all hell. He’s a blond demon and he can get anyone to break. Frankly, I no longer ask the details of how he gets people to talk. So long as they do.

He’s also Benny’s boyfriend. I’d send Benny to get him, but last time they got… distracted, and I had to break them up. Not sure I need to see that again anytime soon. I’m not a prude, but I could have gone my whole life not knowing Nico has a six-rung Jacob’s ladder or seeing Benny’s cum face after being impaled by it.

Benny mutters and shoves everything back in the fridge as Sin flips his laptop closed, retreating to his room. I can tell from the glower on his face he’s not enthused. It’s taken years to solidify a peace between Mateo and Salvatore. Whatever the De Lucas are up to, something tells me it’s about to cause trouble. Trouble me and my team want no part of.

Knocking on Nico’s door, I shout out giving him five minutes to get his ass in gear. I grab my go-bag from the hallway on my way to the garage to confirm we equipped our van with anything we might need for tonight’s job. Climbing into the front passenger seat, I wait impatiently for my team. Sinclair is first and slides open the side panel of the van, hopping into the back. Nico and Benny appear next. Benny jumps in carrying a fucking meatball sub. Of course, we get a call to go, and he stops to make a sandwich. Why wouldn’t he? Dick. If we’re late, Max will lose his fucking mind.

We take twenty minutes to get to the warehouse, code named Aisle Five. It’s crude, but it’s concise. Having driven the van into the warehouse loading bay, I jump out and yank down the metal rolling shutters.

We walk through to the main warehouse, passing a bank of monitors featuring the external camera feeds. Only a few of the overhead lights are on. Enough to allow the shadows to bleed onto the warehouse floor and make the chains hang from various points throughout the main warehouse gleam. Ceiling, walls, floors. We never know how many guests we might need to accommodate and it’s better to be prepared. It’s kept mostly empty. As a rule, we always bring what we need with us, so nothing incriminating remains between visits.

That’s also why there’s a ground level sprinkler system and a large central drain for easy clean-up. Imagine clearing the dip at the end of Who Framed Roger Rabbit.

Me and my guys exist to solve problems. We’re known as The Bastards. Formerly The Bianchi Bastards—pre-Syndicate. We’re on the bottom rung on the Cosa Nostra ladder. The unclaimed progeny of Made Men. And if we’re sent for you, we’re the last people you see.

But it seems Max started—and finished—without us. In front of us are two bodies in what I can only describe as absolute carnage. What the fuck happened here?

Max is crouched down on his haunches, transfixed by the battered body tied to a chair in front of him. He stands abruptly as we approach and greets us with a slight dip of chin. A mask of indifference falls across his features. Whatever emotion he was just experiencing, slips away and he buries it deep—far away from our scrutiny.

“I want these bodies gone within the next six hours. Do whatever you have to and don’t just bury them. They need to disappear,” he commands, straightening his spine and stretching to his full height like he’s assuming a role—playing a part.

As we assess the scope of this job, Max crosses the warehouse floor to the side and drags out an empty oil drum, pops the lid, and strips. Unphased by his audience, he throws in his blood-soaked clothes before walking over to a faucet on the side wall which has a hose attached, rinsing off the remaining viscera and stalks back to the bay of monitors to retrieve a bag. Riffling through it he pulls out a towel followed by a small, neatly folded stack of clothes.

He came well prepared.

I peer up at the man strung up from the hook. Whoever he was, Max doesn’t want us to know, since he appears to have skinned him. His face, at least. I know Max is a violent fucker—he likes to get his hands dirty in the more brutal aspects of The Syndicate’s business—but I’ve never seen him go this far.

Nico lays out the woman on the floor, having cut the zip ties at her ankles and wrists. Her face is unrecognisable, battered black and blue, one eye swollen shut and features distended in a grotesque caricature.

“Untie the bodies, strip them, add their clothes to the first barrel, and grab me two more barrels. We’ll transport them off site for disposal in the drums,” I instruct the team, then I turn to Max. “You don’t normally… handle things personally. What don’t I know?”

“You know everything you need to. Make them disappear. Call me when it’s done,” he barks.

“Who are they?” I push, wondering who could warrant the personal attention of the De Luca underboss.

“I thought I was clear. Who they were is none of anyone’s concern,” he growls, squaring off against me. At six-three, I have at least an inch on him, more now since he’s standing barefoot, but I know better than to fuck with him while he wears this glassy expression. It’s like he’s not there. Detached from reality.

“Whatever you say, sir. I’ll call you when it’s done.” My words are respectful, but my tone screams, fuck you.

“Make sure you do,” Max shouts as he storms off to the loading bay. It’s tough to look threatening whilst barefoot and wearing sweats, but if anyone pulls it off, it’s Max De Luca. There’s something about him that’s always set him apart from other Made Men. All that I find in his eyes is darkness and ruin. I’ve never trusted him, and I detest having to do jobs for him. But we’re not exclusive to the Bianchis anymore.

The Syndicate was born out of a metric shit-ton of bloodshed and a realisation that working together suited the interests of the competing crime families better than constantly interfering with each other’s business. When the families merged, I can’t say I was happy. The De Lucas controlled their crews with fear. The Bianchis managed theirs with respect. But largely, the transition was smooth, and the organisations merged resources successfully. There’s a balance, it’s fragile, but it’s there. Mateo Bianchi tempers Salvatore De Luca’s volatility and in return, Salvatore inspires more ambition in Mateo. We all benefit from the alliance.

The last piece of the puzzle was Aurora. Isa’s little sister was the pawn sacrificed to maintain a continued peace. For four years, I’ve watched as she shrank away from everything and everyone. For fuck’s sake, she used to run her own fucking crew and now she’s this cunt’s arm candy. Trotted out for special occasions like christenings, weddings, and funerals. It’s fucking criminal. Her team was one of the best.

They were largely focused on liberating funds and reacquiring misplaced items. She had some of the best thieves and hackers working for her—excluding Sinclair, that is. She tried to poach him, but that was never going to happen. He’s mine, and I told her as much. I think that’s the last time I spoke to the now Mrs. De Luca. Wife of Salvatore’s little psycho.

---