Page 11 of Falling for the Enemy

Unmistakable fear explodes within his widening gaze as he stares at the pipe. Panic setting in, he tries in vain to scramble backward, his bound body scraping against the rough concrete as he does.

“I’m afraid I lied to you,” I tell him, stalking him like the prey he is. “It won’t be my men who break every bone you possess.” I pause, lifting the pipe into the air. “It’ll be me.”

He screams as I slam the metal against his side. The sound of his ribs cracking echoes through the calm night air. The hit is the first, and surprisingly, the last I deliver.

I thought he’d have more fight in him.

Apparently not.

“Wait!” he screams, tears beginning to leak from his swollen eyes as he changes his tune from before. “I’ll tell you whatever you want!” He sobs, his words momentarily ceasing. “I can’t… just don’t hit me”—he groans, his limit having been reached—“not again.”

Such weakness.

With a roll of my eyes, I drop the pipe, ignoring the clinking sound it makes as it hits the concrete, and kneel once more. My lips remain unmoving as I wait for the coward to continue.

“Jefe,” he starts, coughing between strained gasps for breath. “Jefe sent me...” Having a moment of doubt, he clams up, the further explanation I need to hear failing to spill from his lips.

This simply won’t do.

Leaning forward, I press my knee against his battered side and pinch his likely broken nose, squeezing hard. “Finish.”

He nods, his tears wetting my fingers.

“Alejandro…”

I drop my hand.

“Alejandro Santiago sent me.”

“Da,” I whisper, removing my weight from the man’s body. “And where can I find him?”

He coughs, a speck of blood staining his bottom lip. “The Blue Ocean on Sumter Street”—another cough—“in North Charleston.”

The nightclub is one I know all too well.

Because Angelo, Capone’s uncle, owns it.

At least, he did.

But like Stefano, he’s disappeared.

I stand and look at Casper, an unspoken exchange bouncing between us. Having known me since I was a child, he is one of only two people who can read my thoughts.

He already knows where I’m headed. Just as he knows what I intend to do. I’m going to meet this Alejandro face-to-face. And when I do, may God have mercy on him.

Because I won’t.

* * *

The Blue Ocean has changed little since the last time I was here.

Though I haven’t stepped inside, judging by the line that’s wrapped around the block, the loud music that spills onto the street, and the faint stench of liquor-induced vomit that clings to the sidewalk, everything seems to have remained the same since my last visit.

All except the bouncer manning the door.

One look at him, along with the crown-wearing skull tattoo that peeks out of his collared, button-down shirt, and I know he doesn’t belong to La Famiglia.

No, like the man my men found snooping around my port, he belongs to the cartel. This only means one thing—the Colombians are moving in on La Famiglia’s territory.

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