Page 30 of Twisted Fate

“Favor denied.” I end the call.

“I double checked. Chen’s is definitely still Triad owned. I’m surprised Bianchi went there, but he could have been an emissary,” Luca says late that afternoon as we drive through the North Las Vegas mecca of industrial parks and warehouses. My father foresaw the growth of Vegas as a player in the warehousing and distribution industry and invested accordingly. It’s one of our legal businesses, along with restaurants, bars, and a couple of car washes. They dovetail nicely with our less than legal businesses, offering ideal means of laundering large sums of cash.

“And both LED and La Vecchia are Ivanov owned,” I say. “Which ties Bianchi to Mikhail.”

“We know Mikhail ordered the hit on your father,” Luca says, his tone laced with suppressed rage.

“Knowing and proving are two different things. If we’re going to start a war, we need proof,” I say as we pull into a parking lot. There are three other cars here. I recognize all of them.

“Let’s hope Alina can provide the proof,” Luca says. “You want me to lean on her?”

The thought of anyone leaning on Alina, threatening her, hurting her, makes anger roil inside me. I cut Luca a warning glance. “Whatever information she has will be shared with me and me alone. No one touches her.”

Luca grins. “You been hit by the thunderbolt?”

“The what?”

“The Godfather. Michael Corleone. He got hit by the thunderbolt. Love at first sight.”

“You watch too many movies.” I glower at him. “And who the fuck said anything about love?”

“Actually, I read the book,” Luca says with a laugh.

Of course he did.

I exit the car and stride into the warehouse followed by the sound of Luca’s laughter. I love the fucker like a brother, but right now I wouldn’t mind planting my fist in his face.

The inside of the warehouse is quiet. Late afternoon sunlight filters in through grimy windows set high in the walls, cutting pale lines across the concrete floor. Stacks of crates tower overhead, creating narrow aisles. The place smells of dust and damp and concrete and oil.

Four of our men stand to one side. Frank, a guy around my father’s age, detaches from the group and walks toward me.

“Markus’ information checks out,” he says.

“Shit. So this is what had Nikolai’s panties in a wad,” Luca mutters.

“Justifiably so,” I say, tamping down my fury.

Markus told the truth. One of our men has been dealing heroine. Decades ago, when my father became boss, he put a ban on trafficking narcotics. Any of our people who broke that rule would be killed.

Maybe Papa had scruples. I doubt it. I asked him once, and he said it was because the jail terms for narcotics trafficking were too long. He didn’t want to do without valuable men for that length of time if someone got caught. He also said that faced with such a lengthy prison term some men might be tempted to share secrets they had no business sharing in exchange for a lighter sentence.

Two months ago when Leo took over, he made it clear that Papa’s rules still apply. Too much risk for too little reward. We don’t traffic in narcotics. We leave that lucrative avenue open for others. Like the Ivanovs.

Now, it seems that Emanuel Gallo branched out on his own, getting involved with the Mexicans, not only breaking the rule, and in doing so, making a statement about his disrespect for the family, but also pissing off a rival organization at a time when Leo hasn’t yet cemented his power.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“Back room.” Frank juts his chin toward the back of the warehouse. “You know this isn’t the first time he’s stepped out of line.”

“I know. But it will be the last,” I say. My father dealt with Emanuel twice before, showed him leniency because of his longstanding friendship with Emanuel’s dead father. Now both fathers are gone and only the sons are left. Leo has no such friendship with Emanuel.

“You want me to take care of it for you?” Luca asks.

I shake my head. “I’ll do it.”

Together, we go into the back room where I find Emanuel sitting on a metal chair, hands tied behind his back. He has a black eye and a split lip, telling me he didn’t come quietly.

I lean down in front of Emanuel, looking him in the eye. I don’t ask for an explanation or an apology. I just wait for him to speak.

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