Page 49 of Satin Empire

I park in front of an old, rundown former factory. “What did they used to make here?” Alana asks, trying to pull up the listing on her phone.

But I already know. “Underwear.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and she laughs. “Seriously?”

“Yep, it was a Victorian underwear factory. This far north, it was basically in the suburbs back then. Philly was a lot smaller a hundred years ago.”

“Huh. An underwear factory. You could call the place Garments or like Tighty-Whiteys or something.”

I give her a look and refuse to laugh at what is objectively a terrible joke. “The building’s gorgeous. I mean, look at the place.”

She nods, squinting at the facade. There is still some original decorative molding and friezes depicting oddly weathered human expressions surrounded by geometric shapes.

“It really is,” she agrees and takes off her sunglasses. “But we’re in the middle of nowhere again.”

I groan and lean my head back on the car seat. I know she’s right—North Philly isn’t exactly the best neighborhood in the city, and I can’t imagine a bunch of cool, affluent youths flocking to the murder capital of the state, even if I could make sure nobody would dare fuck with a building owned and operated by the Rossi Famiglia. Or at least one member.

“None of them are right,” I say and want to slam my hands against the steering wheel but hold myself back. I don’t want her to see how frustrated I am. This is only the very beginning of the process, and already there are annoying problems cropping up all over the place. But I can’t cut corners when it comes to the club’s location, that’s going to determine whether I’m successful or not more than pretty much anything else.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says and puts a hand on my thigh. It’s strangely comforting, and I lean across the car to kiss her gently, my hand lingering on her face. She returns the kiss, her cheeks flushed, and I marvel for the hundredth time how things have changed between us. Alana’s still so damn young, and all her youth and inexperience show when it comes to business, but for some reason I like that about her. I love her optimism and her attitude, and she makes me feel like I can pull off anything at all—only I wish she’d turn that same spark around on herself.

Before we can start combing through more listings to visit, my phone rings. It’s Saul, and I know better than to ignore a sudden call from the underboss. “What’s up, bro?”

Saul sounds stressed. “Where are you? We got some actionable information and I need you at the house.”

I glance at Alana, but she’s not listening. Her nose is buried in her phone, and she’s flicking through the realty website again.

“I’m with my wife. What’s the emergency?”

“We got info from one of Orsino’s guys. They know where Jasha’s hiding.”

That gets my fucking attention. I put the car in gear and I’m already driving as he explains the deal. Alana looks alarmed, but I wave her questions away, totally focused on my brother’s instructions. When he’s done, I hang up, heart pounding in my chest.

Jasha Aslanov has been on the run since we dismantled his Irish allies and took the fight to his Bratva. Now that Orsino Milano’s in the game, all three Italian Famiglias are ready to descend on that Russian bastard and finish him once and for all. Philly’s on the edge of ending this bitter war, and I almost don’t know what to do with myself now that it’s becoming a reality.

“I have to take you home,” I tell her as I speed back south. “I got a job.”

“Something dangerous?”

I give her a hard look. “My job’s always dangerous.”

She sinks into her seat and doesn’t say anything, only watching the city flash by as I push the Porsche and break more than a few laws in my hurry.

This is everything. If we can catch Jasha, that’s the end for his Bratva. They’re already on the ropes, but we haven’t been able to pin down the fucker for a really long time. If this is real, it’s absolutely massive.

Alana heads inside after telling me to be careful. I tear back to the Rossi mansion, and Saul’s pissed by the time I show up. He’s got a team together, a dozen of our best guys armed and loaded out, three trucks idling and waiting to go. I park the Porsche and jump out to join them.

“That took fucking forever,” Saul says, jaw working. “If we miss Jasha because of you?—”

“I was busy and I dropped everything to get here as fast as I could.” I don’t back down. There’s no room for weakness, not in front of the best killers in our entire organization. “If you needed speed, you should’ve left already and texted me the address.”

Saul grunts, clearly frustrated, because we both know I’m the better operational commander. The moment passes, and soon I’m barking orders, getting smaller teams together and making sure everyone’s loaded out with the right gear. Five minutes later, we’re on the road, barreling to the southernmost tip of the city, down near the stadiums.

“Place is an old warehouse. They used it back when the docks were busier, but I guess it fell on hard times in the last ten years.” Saul’s sitting next to me in the back of an armored SUV while the soldiers ride ahead of us in their trucks. “I pulled what info I could from the city, but the owner is just some generic LLC.”

“You think it’s Jasha?” I ask, since the Russian eel is known to have a million different business entities to hide his actions.

“No reason why it couldn’t be, but it’s hard to say.” Saul looks uncomfortable, and I can’t blame him. We’re not going on much right now—basically just the word of a random Milano soldier—but we’re so damn desperate for anything on Jasha that we’ll happily chase ghosts.

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