Page 50 of Satin Empire

Only Jasha’s a clever bastard, and he’s set traps for us more than once. Good men have died because we charge in hoping to finish this war, only to find a bomb or a bunch of hidden snipers waiting to pick us off. It’s a small miracle that I’ve survived this long, and only got fucking shot one time early in the struggle. I’m due for some real pain, and I can only imagine how Alana would react if I took a bullet somewhere vital.

Would she mourn me? Would she be angry that I got myself killed? We’re growing something between us, that’s pretty obvious—would she miss me if I were gone? I have to imagine yes and no, and maybe she’d even feel some relief. No more mafia husband to keep her tied down. Hell, maybe I should get myself killed, just so that she doesn’t have to remain trapped in this marriage she never really wanted.

Unfortunately for her, I’m not suicidal, and I like her right where she is.

We reach the warehouse. The place is dead silent and there aren’t any cars parked nearby. We’re about two minutes from the stadiums, the place is slightly hidden, tucked back behind a tall fence and some overgrown trees and bushes. There’s a park bordering one side, and there are sidewalks leading up to the subway station not too far away. The outside is in decent condition, though it clearly has seen better days, and it’s fairly plain, not at all ornate like that factory. But it’s got a good industrial vibe.

“You ready?” I ask once we’re gathered outside. I give the men thirty seconds to form up before I give them assignments: which squads take the front door, which squads take the back, and who clears what side first. Once it’s settled, I give the orders, and we roll over that place like a tidal wave ripping surfers from their boards.

The interior is a mess. People have been squatting inside for a while. I can’t imagine the Russians actually own this place—if they did, they would’ve treated it a little bit better, since it’s probably pretty valuable. Instead, there’s trash everywhere, and I’m starting to wonder if that Milano soldier was full of shit when we burst into a section of the building blocked out for offices.

There are computers on the floor alongside sleeping bags, a couple tents, and some phones tossed on the table. A charger’s plugged into the fucking wall. It looks like at least six to ten people had been staying in this series of rooms, sleeping on the floor and living like they were camping, but there’s no sign of anyone around.

“We just missed them,” Saul says, shoving a book in my hands. It looks like a random thriller, but it’s entirely in Russian. “There’s some fucking tea in the other room and it’s still hot.”

I curse, pacing back and forth. “How’d they know we were coming?”

“They must’ve been tipped off.” His voice darkens and the thought is extremely unwelcome. It’s hard enough finding Jasha without a leak, but if there’s someone feeding him information?—

I walk away to clear my head as the soldiers finish grabbing everything they can. Every phone, every computer, every scrap of evidence that might lead to Jasha’s next safe house, it’s all packed up in plastic bags. The electronics are going to be a big deal once we manage to break them open, which is only a matter of time, and I hope at least they’ll provide something worthwhile. There’s other evidence, like the sleeping bags and tents, and a few food scraps, but otherwise it looks like Jasha and whoever was staying here with him got away right before we arrived.

As the guys get to work, I wander back out to the main room. For a few minutes I’m alone in the cavernous room, kicking through random debris and reading the spray-painted gang tags random local kids must’ve thrown up on a dare. There are empty beer bottles and a small nest of syringes where some junkies must’ve shacked up for the night, but despite all the flaws, the place has a good flow to it. I like the exposed brick and the beams across the ceiling, and the high windows give a good view of the sky—they’re probably beautiful on a clear night, the stars just visible.

An idea starts to form. The more I look around, the more I can see it: bar over there, DJ booth up that way, the dance floor taking up this section, high tops over there, the VIP just visible on the second floor. The offices could be converted into staff space, even a kitchen if we decide to serve food, and the nearby stadiums would serve as good foot traffic. It’s far enough from the city that it’ll seem cool, but close enough to a subway stop that young people can get down here pretty easily, and it’ll be a great destination for when big concerts let out late at night and people don’t want to go home yet.

I call Alana, unable to help it. “Carlo? Are you okay?”

“I’m totally fine,” I tell her as I keep pacing. I spot Saul standing nearby, watching me with a guarded look on his face. “We’re at this warehouse down by the stadiums, and the more I look around, the more I think it’s perfect.”

She lets out a confused laugh. “I thought you were chasing that Russian guy.”

“He got away before we showed up, but forget about him. Seriously, baby, this place is perfect. It’s got foot traffic from the stadiums and easy subway access, and the bones are just right.”

“Is it for sale? Who owns it? I mean, if that Russian guy was hiding there?—”

“We’ll figure it out. I think he was probably squatting but who knows? He might even sell it to me himself.” I laugh at the thought of doing a business deal with Jasha Aslanov—I’d rather put a bullet through his head. “It doesn’t matter. All I know is this place is perfect, and you have to see it.”

“Take pictures,” she says, sounding like she thinks I’m the most insane person on the planet. And she’s probably right: I came here to murder a man, and instead I’m thinking about opening a club, and there isn’t exactly the straightest line between those two.

“I’ll text them over. This is good, baby, this is really good. I can almost smell the place already.”

“Oh, yeah? You smell cheap alcohol, body glitter, and sweat?”

“Expensive alcohol, but that’s it exactly. See you soon.” I hang up and open my camera app, smiling to myself like a total lunatic as my brother walks over. He’s got a sour look on his face.

“Who was that?” he asks.

“My wife.” I snap a few photos, turning in a slow circle. “I had to tell her about this space.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I know you’re not going to like it, but I think this spot is perfect for my club.”

Saul grabs my arm as I start taking more pictures and yanks the camera down, fury in his expression, his fingers digging into my wrist. I stare back at him, baring my teeth in a look that’s half snarl and half smirk, daring him to cross the line and go a little further. My brothers and I used to fight all the time as little kids—my dad practically set up a fucking fight club in his basement and we were the sole members—and I won more often than not. Saul’s a good guy and handy in a battle, but I’ve spent more time out on the streets than he has, and I don’t doubt my ability to bring him down.

“You’re supposed to focus on Aslanov, but here you are already letting yourself get distracted. What the fuck is wrong with you, Carlo?”

I yank my arm away from him and shove him back. He stumbles a step and his hands turn into fists. I jut out my chin, almost begging him to throw the first punch. Saul’s the underboss, which means I can’t cross that line and initiate anything physical without getting into deep shit, but I sure as hell can defend myself.

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