Page 77 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

“I know you have a plan,” he continues, his gaze steady.

“I do,” I reply with a firm nod.

His smirk widens as he leans back. “Good. That means you’re thinking long-term. Your father? He would’ve stormed in, guns blazing, demanding revenge. But that was always his downfall—he never played the long game.”

I don’t know if my plans are solid either. They feel more like a shaky foundation waiting to collapse.

I still have no answers, no leads on the bastards who took the photographs, and no leads on the rival gangs who have gone quiet since the exposé on Ethan Cross hit the streets. They are likely biding their time, waiting to see who falls next.

Alucard watches me, then exhales, shaking his head. “I came here to offer you something I know you need.”

My curiosity stirs, but I keep my expression unreadable, head tilting slightly. Every offer comes with a cost. A debt. And as much as I need leverage right now, trust is a luxury I can’t afford.

Anthony Cross made certain of that. Still, I’m curious to see his hand.

“What is it?”

“I need you to know that my sources are legitimate,” he says after a brief pause. “I have men in places where yours wouldn’t dare to go, so when I tell you what I know, I want you to take it as the truth.”

I shrug. “I’ll determine that.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, the kind my father might have worn if he’d ever been capable of fatherly pride. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small black flash drive, sliding it smoothly across the desk. “Everything you need is in there. I like to keep my affairs handy.”

Alucard rises from his seat, straightening his jacket as he clears his throat. “If you need more proof, you know where to find me.”

Something akin to disappointment crosses his face before he turns away, and he leaves with parting words, “Blood is a terrible thing sometimes, Ethan. When you have to spill it, it leaves an ugly stain that never really washes away.”

The second Alucard is out the door, I rip my laptop screen open and shove the drive into the port. Clicking on a folder that pops up, I’m taken aback when a flood of pictures pours out, tiny boxes filling my screen.

The first image that zooms out is enough evidence, as Alucard said.

It’s Anthony, parked across the restaurant where Natalie and I had dinner, with a camera in hand. The implication is as clear as day.

He took the photographs that were sent as a threat.

The pictures show my cousin in increasingly different states of betrayal—with Joe Geller, whom he battered the other day, sharing a glass of whiskey.

With members of rival mafia gangs and men I know would stab me in the back, even if I was looking over my shoulder.

By the time I’m done, my fingers have made claw marks into the polished wood of my desk. There’s a new hole in my chest, and it’s bleeding with rage, like a silent bullet engraved with a single name. Carved and painted to kill one target.

Anthony.

My cousin… shaking hands with my enemies, plotting behind my back. All this while, all the rage he had over my indecision was an act.

And I, like a sold fool, fell for it.

Not anymore.

The chair scrapes against the floor and falls backward as I stand up angrily, grabbing my suit jacket. My strides across the office are lacedwith brewing thoughts of what I intend to do to Anthony when I find him.

Family or not, he’ll beg me for mercy. With my foot crushing his windpipe and his face turning blue, he’ll beg me to spare him from death.

I won’t kill him.

No.Death is too easy for an offense of this scale. I’ll feed him to the same wolves he’s been conniving with. I’ll throw him overboard and watch them feast when they figure out he no longer has the backing of Ethan Cross.

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