Page 34 of Stolen Sin

I check my watch and nod to myself. At this point in the evening, the team inside that pristine building should be wrapped up for the day. They do most of their work in the afternoons, but they have a night team ready to take over in case any jobs require special attention. They must be busy right now, because there are more cars than I would’ve guessed.

Which pisses me off.

“Two minutes,” I radio Davide. “Get the guys ready to go.”

I walk through my preparations: gun loaded, body armor strapped, knives in place just in case shit goes really wrong. My phone’s in my pocket, but it’s powered off and the battery’s removed, just like everyone else on this mission. No cell tower pings, no paper trails.

Elation runs through me. It’s always like this before a big hit. But for the first time, I’m not thinking about myself.

I’m picturing Emily back home worrying her pretty little head off, wondering if I’ll come home to her in one piece.

And I’m thinking about her father giving away everything he had because a few good liars convinced him to take a chance on a dream.

I kick open my car door and close it. Around me, other cars come to life, as the team spreads out and surrounds the building. I spot Davide walking among the men, standing at least a head taller than everyone, his muscular and hulking frame like a demon straight from hell. I love my brother, but goddamn, he’s one scary motherfucker.

And he goes first. He always goes first. We line up outside the front door while one of our specialists, a guy named Antonio, picks the lock on the gate. It takes only a few seconds, but those seconds seem to last forever; a car could drive by at this moment, spot a dozen armed and armored men lined up on the sidewalk, and decide to call the cops. That’d be a real pain in the ass.

I meet Davide’s eye once Antonio’s done and give him a nod.

My brother yanks the door open. I drop to one knee, jerk the tab off a nondescript black canister, and roll it inside.

We’ve done this a thousand times. It goes like a ballet. Everyone turns and shields their eyes as the flashbang explodes with a deafening roar and a blinding light, and folks start screaming inside. Davide’s already through, gun up and screaming at the people to get on the ground, and I’m right behind him.

The place looks like a call center. Long tables with rows of computers and people with headsets staring at the screens with blank, dull stares, almost bored. There’s a manager’s office in the back, and a whiteboard displays names and numbers, probably some fucking sick competition to see who can steal the most.

Because this isn’t a normal call center.

“On the fucking ground,” I say, wrenching a young man away from his station and slamming him down. I put a knee in his back, my gun against his head, and I scan the area.

“Simon!” Davide shouts, and it’s just in time. I throw myself sideways as gunfire erupts from the corner of the office. There’s a security guard, an old guy in a blue-and-white uniform, and his hands are shaking as he pops off a gun that looks like it’s way too big for his skinny hands. If Davide hadn’t yelled, he might’ve blown off my head.

Instead, he took down a computer monitor, sending glass and sparks shooting into the air, before several of our guys put their own bullets in him. The guard’s blood splatters the wall, painting it red as he slumps down to the ground.

I get to my feet and shrug off my brother. “The manager,” I say through my teeth. One of the workers tries to stand, a middle-aged man with a paunch and bags under his eyes, but I slam the butt of my gun into his mouth, crumpling him to the ground. I barely even pause. Let the old fuck choke on his teeth for all I care.

These people are scum. These are the cretins that stole from Emily’s dad. Maybe not the exact crew, but a group just like them, a bunch of pathetic people willing to do disgusting jobs to earn a little cash. And the worst of them all is the manager, a slick-looking guy in his thirties in a polo shirt and a pair of black slacks. He looks like he spends half his life in the gym, and he’s down on his knees with his hands in the air when I kick open the door to his office.

“Please, we just work for them,” he says, terror in his face as I grab him by his thinning hair and yank him to his feet. I hold the gun against his head. In the other room, Davide’s people have the remaining employees rounded up and standing against the back wall while our tech crew scours the computers, downloading anything that might be useful.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” I tell the manager and shove him back into the other room. Davide goes along with me, looking bemused as I kick the back of the manager’s knees and make him face his employees.

Everyone’s staring at me. All of them, including the man with the bloody mouth. They’re horrified, scared for their lives. A couple of women are crying. Let them sob like their victims. I press the gun to the back of the manager’s head.

“You people make me sick,” I say, meeting their gazes. “Each and every one of you deserves a bullet to the brain.”

“No, please don’t,” the manager moans, trembling so hard his head keeps banging up against the barrel of my gun. “I just work for them. I just work for them!”

“For who?” I ask, leaning down to speak right into his ear. “Tell me who you work for.”

“Santoro,” he says, moaning the name. “I work for the Santoro Famiglia!”

Just had to be sure.

I stand back and pull the trigger.

The manager’s head explodes in a shower of brain matter and bone fragments. The workers scream and one of the women pukes on her shoes as the manager’s corpse slumps over to the side.

My men barely pause in what they’re doing.

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