Page 165 of Where the Wicked Reign

“Let’s go,” I told Milo. “Cautious, recon approach. We’ll double back and come in from outside the city so they won’t be able to see us coming.”

“Sounds good,” Milo agreed.

I eyed Julian, giving him an order before he could launch into a whole protest about this being dangerous. Of course it was. It was the life we led. “Do yourfunplan with Caterina until we get back. And before you ask, no, you can’t come along. The two of you need to be lying low right now.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “Just play it safe. No crazed heroics, Milo. And noferalstate antics, Nico.”

“We’ll handle it,” I assured him.

Whoever had dared to cross me tonight had chosen the worst time to do so.

I was sick to fucking death of all this capitulating to the family, to this new alliance, the toll it had taken on me and those I cared about.

I was sick of the loss of power.

And I would take my frustrations out on these fools tonight.

Blood would spill.

Screams would echo through the night.

Terror would have free rein.

Lives would be torn away without a shred of fucking mercy.

“This wasn’twhat I’d expected,” Milo commented as we took in the truck stop from our position in the trees a few blocks back.

The place was empty of people. No sign of my soldiers. No bodies torn apart by automatic fire sprawled out all over the fucking place. Not even any bloodstains on the concrete.

There was evidence that an attack had taken place, though.

Vehicles belonging to my soldiers were riddled with bullets, tires shot out, windows shattered to smithereens.

The transport truck was positioned in the center of the place, also riddled with bullets, the passenger window and the windshield with several bullet holes.

Pulling my gun, I broke from our cover and drew closer, Milo at my back, covering me with his piece.

I zoned in on the scuff marks and evidence of bodies being dragged along the ground, all leading to the diner that should be open at this hour, but wasn’t.

Movement in the darkness had both of us jolting as we stepped into the parking lot.

We both swung with our guns, taking aim as a dozen men in sleek suits strode out from around the triple car wash station.

Before we could even react, another two dozen emerged from the diner fifty feet from where we stood.

The two units were heavily armed, automatic weapons trained on us as they drew closer, surrounding us.

“Goddammit,” Milo uttered.

Adrenaline flooded my system, urging me to act.

But it got worse when a lone figure pushed through the doors of the diner next.

Middle-aged but wearing it well, he was well built, with his ash-gray hair styled in a chic Pompadour, and decked out in a two-thousand-dollar black pinstripe suit. Chunky gold rings adorned each one of his fingers.

Carlo Benzino in the flesh.

A self-satisfied smirk twisted his lips as he zeroed in on me.

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