Page 70 of Dark Mafia Bride

22

ETTORE

My feet crunch against the gravel as I step out of my car onto a quiet street in the Lower East Side. A light drizzle falls from the sky, making the ground damp and creating a fog that hangs over the air. Across the road, a dim neon sign blinks red from an alleyway, flickering weakly in the darkness.

I cross the empty street, head down as I move toward the alley. When I reach the door, I pull it open and slip inside, finding myself in what looks like an old vinyl store. Without stopping, I make my way toward the back, where another door waits. I push it open and enter a narrow, dimly lit corridor that reeks of damp stone and stale smoke.

I walk down the corridor, each step echoing softly until I reach the door at the end. Swiping my card, I hear the click of the lock, and the door slides open.

Inside, the air is thick and heavy. Jazz hums low in the background, a lazy tune that winds through the haze of cigar smoke, settling into the dark wood and plush velvet sofas scattered around the room. My eyes sweep over the familiar faces, men draped in shadows, some lounging in armchairs,others perched on leather stools. Their expressions are hard. Focused.

These aren’t ordinary men. They’re dangerous, each one a silent enforcer in the criminal underworld, men who erase problems not with signatures but with silence—and sometimes blood. These are men like me, gathered here today for a reason none of us can ignore.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” sneers Riccardo De Santis, his sharp gaze cutting through the smoke. Riccardo, the man who owns half the drug factories on this side of the country, knows just how to throw a jab.

I ignore him, turning instead to Dante Russo, the head of Manhattan’s largest drug cartel. He speaks first, his voice gravelly and tense. “You’ve all heard the news.”

We lost the customs director this morning. Not lost as in dead, but worse—arrested. For men like us, that’s a far bigger problem.

Abruzzi isn’t here yet, but he’s expected. Abruzzi, with his smug grin and his tendency to show up exactly where I don’t want him to be.

“The authorities put out a public statement. They’re launching a full-blown investigation.” Dante’s voice is low, but it cuts through the murmurs that ripple around the room.

Our man in customs, the one we placed there, has been compromised. He made things easy for us, greasing the wheels of our operations. Now he’s in their custody, and it’s only a matter of time before they start digging. To put it plainly, we’refucked.

Ricardo leans forward, his face shadowed. “Days. That’s all we’ve got before they start tracing every shipment, every payout. They’ve frozen his accounts already. It won’t be long before they track down the rest of us.”

From across the table, Bruno Sanchez curses under his breath. “I’ve got a contact at Interpol. It’s not just the Feds,” he mutters, scowling. Bruno’s been in the game since the early ‘90s, and he doesn’t look like he’s stopping anytime soon.

I glance around. Six of us should be here, but we’re two short.

Abruzzi and Martelli.

I can’t stand Abruzzi, but the reality is that our circles overlap, and we’re in this mess together. He’s not one to miss a meeting like this, though, and a bad feeling gnaws at me. Either Abruzzi’s caught up in something that could drag us all down, or he’s behind this trouble.

Dante’s voice breaks through the haze, rougher this time. “It’s worse than we thought. Someone’s leaking intel. They know about our routes, our fronts—even our offshore accounts. This is going to blow up fast. They’re hitting us from the bottom up, picking off our bodyguards, our men. They’re squeezing them for names and leads.”

The room goes quiet. No one says it out loud, but I can see it in their eyes—if we don’t get ahead of this, we’ll be next.

“That’s not the main problem,” I finally say. “We’re all circling the obvious here. We have a wildfire at our doorstep.” The room quiets, eyes turning to me as I let the words hang heavy. “They pulled Martelli this afternoon. In his villa in Barcelona.”

I pause, watching the alarm ripple through the faces around me. “And he’s talking.”

“Martelli’s a fucking coward,” Bruno spits, anger gleaming in his eyes. We’ve all heard brave stories of the man. He’s been arrested a couple of times, and each time he’s asked to snitch, he asks them to kill him instead.

“He knows too much,” Bruno continued, “and if they’ve really got him, they’re closer to us than I’d thought. It’s only a matter of time before they pick someone else, too.”

“Then what do you suggest we do, Ettore?” Ricardo asks in a biting tone. “Since you know everything, and we’ve all been stating the obvious.”

I glance at him, keeping my expression blank. Ricardo’s had it out for me ever since I had a short, ill-fated fling with his sister. A couple of fucks some nights together, and she was talking about moving into the Greco estate, making plans for children. I told her straight—in more cruel words, I’ll admit—I wasn’t interested in marriage, family, any of it. The next day, Ricardo stormed into my office, hurling curses and fists. He’s never forgiven me, and he’s not about to start now.

I lean back, letting the silence build before I speak. “We all know what has to be done.”

We have to kill Martelli.

No one objects. They know I’m right.

I lean forward, my voice low. “They’re going after every network, every front we’ve built. They’re going to rip through us piece by piece if we don’t end this leak and shut down this investigation for good. And we need to do it fast.”

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