Page 63 of Satin Empire

“Slow down. What’s happening?”

“The Russians are here. I was showing Noah the warehouse and they just showed up and?—”

“Stay where you are,” he says, and the fear in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. “I’m not too far away. Don’t fucking move, okay? No matter what, don’t let them find you. Stay hidden, Alana.”

“I will,” I say, crying now. Tears run down my face and I’m trying so hard not to sob. Noah’s pale and he’s fidgeting next to me, texting someone, maybe pleading for help. I don’t even know. “Just hurry. Please, Carlo.”

I hear wind blowing on his end then a door slam shut and an engine start. “Stay on the line. Talk me through it. I’m coming, baby, and don’t you dare let them find you before I show up, alright? I’m bringing some friends. Stay on the line, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Carlo, please, wait?—”

But it’s too late. He puts me on hold and I stare numbly at the phone, pretty sure I’m going to die, because there’s no way he shows up before those Russians kick down the door.

Chapter 31

Carlo

They’re in my warehouse. They’re close to my wife.

My body’s a raging inferno of anger and terror. If they hurt her, if they get close to her, I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself. While she’s on hold on the other line, I call Renzo’s emergency line and tell him what’s happening. He swears he’ll get the closest soldiers he can to that location as soon as possible. Next, I call Saul.

“I’m already on my way,” he says. “What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know. They must’ve found out I bought the place and they went back to check it out, and Alana happens to be there. I’m not even sure they’re looking for her.”

“How far out are you?”

“I was in fucking Camden scouting out those locations. Fuck, Saul, I don’t know what I’m going to do if they find her.”

“They won’t. You’re going to beat me there, but I’m not far behind you. Drive fast, brother.”

He hangs up and I switch back over to Alana. She sounds so scared and I do my best to keep her as calm as I can. I hear her cousin Noah breathing in the background. He’s no good in a fight—the kid’s a skinny mess of legs and knees and he’s more likely to hurt himself than he is to hurt someone else.

“Don’t respond to me baby,” I say as softly as I can. “Stay nice and quiet, okay? You’re doing great and I’m on the way. I promise, I’m so close.” Currently, I’m speeding over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, thanking God that there isn’t too much traffic. I push the speed limit as hard as I can, but if I get pulled over then my wife is completely fucked. “Tonight I’m going to make shrimp linguine for dinner. You ever have my shrimp linguine? It’s a white wine sauce, really delicate. I learned it from our cook back when I was a young man. I wanted something I could cook for girls, you know, to impress them.”

A soft snort on the other end of the line. Good, she’s still listening, and I don’t think she’s crying anymore. I spot the exit off I-95 South toward the stadiums. I’m not far.

“Yeah, I was that kind of guy in my youth. You probably could’ve guessed that though. And I bet you’re thinking I’m still that kind of guy, and you’d probably be right, but I don’t really like to think of myself that way anymore. That’s why I’m doing this whole thing with the warehouse, you know? I’m tired of people seeing me as Carlo the clown, Carlo the goofy, Carlo the good-natured guy they can point in the direction of the bad guys and say go kill, because that’s what I’ve been for so damn long. You make me want to be better, baby.”

I’m weaving in and out of traffic. My mind is totally focused on talking to my wife while racing toward her. Only five more minutes.

“Carlo,” she says and I can barely hear her voice. “They’re close. Someone’s upstairs.”

“Stay quiet. It’ll be okay, I’m nearly here.” I hit the gas harder. If the cops try to stop me now, I’ll lead them straight to the fucking warehouse and they’ll have to fucking shoot me if they want to keep me from my woman. I’m pushing ninety, ninety-five, a hundred, recklessly tearing around slow drivers. More than a few honks.

“Carlo,” she says and she’s crying again.

“Baby, be quiet, don’t speak. Just listen to me. When I saw you for the first time up on that stage, you know what I thought? Other than how good you looked. I thought you were one of the weirdest fucking women I’d ever seen in my life, weird and fucking brave, with absolutely fantastic tits. Just an absolutely perfect rack. And I couldn’t handle the thought of anyone else seeing them, because they’re all mine now, you hear me?”

There’s a bang in the background. She’s breathing hard into the receiver. I’m losing my mind as I slam on the brakes and hit the exit, nearly losing control as I careen toward a red light. Fuck this, I can’t stop, and I blow through the intersection nearly slamming into a goddamn minivan, but then I’m peeling out down Broad, hitting a turn way too fucking fast, and nearly toppling over as I hit the gravel driveway. I blow through the gate and slam on the brakes again as I come to a skidding halt next to Alana’s SUV.

It’s flanked by two black sedans.

“Baby, I’m here. Stay where you are.”

Before I get out of my truck, I hear a shout come over the phone, followed by the loud bang of something slamming against a door. Alana whimpers in sheer terror, and I don’t sit around to hear what happens next. I grab my gun and sprint my ass off for the door, pausing only to clear the entrance, before turning right and going for the offices.

I spot the first Russian standing near the entrance. He’s looking down at his phone, frowning at something, and I bet the last thing he sees is some random fucking TikTok asshole doing a lame dance. The gunshot’s excruciatingly loud in the silent space and echoes like we’re inside a damn drum, but the Russian goes down, sans head, his blood painted on the wall.

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