Page 13 of Devil Mine

“And why are you so sure of that?”

“Because they’ll be thinking I’d never be stupid enough to come to a rival organization’s club with only five men, completely exposed and with no way out,” I say, grinning at him. “They’ll assume I have additional men undercover in the crowd and reinforcements outside. They won’t risk starting something without making damned sure they’re not encircled and trapped themselves.”

Arturo is entitled to question the folly that is deciding to go to a club likeFirenze. It’s owned by the Italian mafia and run as a joint venture with Armenian organized crime. Thefamiglia, once a pinnacle of the Underworld, has grown cancerous under the current leadership. They’ve sacrificed their morals and any hard lines they once had for short-term profits. I know that in addition to the usual drugs and guns, they’ve allowed the Armenians to run a sex trafficking ring through the club.

Disgust forces my fists to clench. The da Silva cartel doesn’t deal in women. Never has, never will. It’s bad business, one that leaves too many loose ends and is easily and often targeted by law enforcement.

It’s a selfish line we’ve drawn in the sand, not one born out of mercy or goodness. There are simply far better uses for women than forcing them into sex slavery.

Marco laughs. “So the reason they won’t attack is because they simply won’t believe you’d be stupid enough to do exactly what you’re doing. Respectfully,” he adds.

“Stupid, maybe.” I down the rest of my drink and wave at one of my men for a refill. “Or, maybe I’ve just outwitted them all.”

“You better be right, Thiago. This is a hell of a risk to take.”

I lean forward, narrowing my eyes at Arturo. He knows more than anyone exactly what I’m doing here. “This is where she disappeared. This is probably where they murdered her. I don’t give a fuck aboutrisk. I’ll kill them all whether it’s tonight, tomorrow, a week, or a year from today. They’ll all die.”

He inclines his head, knowing to back away from this particular subject. Marco hands me a fresh glass and squeezes my shoulder in quiet solidarity.

I shake him off. I don’t need anyone’s pity.

I need revenge.

And that’s why we’re here tonight.

Three months before I arrived in London, my sister Adriana came here on holiday with her best friend, our unofficial adoptive sister. They’d both recently graduated from university and were in London celebrating, enjoying being young and excited for the promise of the future.

They came toFirenzelooking for a night of booze and fun like so many other young people in their early twenties.

Only one of them came home that night.

Adriana disappeared into thin air, never to be heard from again. Intel flowed in from multiple sources that she’d been raped and killed by an Armenian she crossed paths with that night. An Armenian who’d remained unidentified until yesterday when Joaquín, one of my men, had come to me with a name he’d gotten out of an informant.

Yuri Dadurian.

Adriana was never involved in cartel business. My father and I made sure of it, but she was never interested regardless. We’d hidden her identity and encouraged her to focus on her studies. She’d excelled and she’d graduated and then she’d walked right into the lion’s den, completely unsuspecting of the danger around her.

She was innocent. She didn’t deserve to die.

I didn’t understand why she was killed. It didn’t make sense. It made even less sense that the Armenians would do it. Sure, we didn’t have a presence in Europe at the time but the da Silva name was still recognized globally.

They should have known to stay away.

The muscle in my jaw ticks dangerously.

I’m going to make sure that anyone involved in her death dies a death a hundred times more painful than what she suffered. And I’m going to find her body so that I can give her a proper burial back home and my father can finally mourn his daughter’s death in peace.

“That’s why we’re here,” Arturo says, finally connecting the dots. His gaze turns wary. “You have a lead on Adriana?”

“Yuri Dadurian.”

Marco’s eyes widen. “Who is that?”

“Armenian gun for hire. He was seen with her that night. And he’s here tonight.”

Turo scratches his nose. “And why couldn’t we go after him in the street or at his home. Or frankly anywhere that isn’there?”

“Because,” I say, standing and walking over to the edge of the balcony and looking down at the crowd of people below me. I throw a look over my shoulder at him. “I wanted to send a message.”

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