Page 88 of Luciano

He stepped closer. “Anyone who had a hand in this. Anyone who knew and didn’t say. The entire fucking organization if we have to. And them motherfuckers who called us weak.”

Saint let out a slow breath. “You’re talking full-scale sweep. That’ll draw eyes.”

“I don’t care,” my father snapped. “They came for me” He brought his hand down on his desk.

“Li voglio morti tutti. Fategli ingoiare il nostro nome insieme al loro sangue.”

("I want them all dead. Make them swallow our name along with their blood.")

I glanced toward the file on his desk. Surveillance photos. Maps. A printout of Russo’s latest shipping manifest. We had everything we needed.

Brooker walked forward and tapped the map with a knuckle. “We start on the south side of St. Pete. They have no friends there. That’s where they’re weakest. We cut the head off last.”

Saint looked at me. “You good with that?”

I nodded. “Sweep the street dealers first. No mercy. Make it loud. Pay the officers who need to be paid to look the other way.”

My father lit another cigar and exhaled through his nose like a dragon. “This is your mess now, Luciano. You lead it.”

I didn’t blink. “Then it’s already done.”

He watched me for a beat. But he didn’t argue.

He really didn’t have an argument.

He knew what I was capable of.

And he knew I’d get the job done.

Chapter 40

Luciano

It took us only two days to kill the bulk of Russo's men and track down Russo’s oldest son, Marco.

They had all gone into hiding, running from the war they started, letting their men die.

We found him in Gainesville. He wasn't just running from us after I'd sent those picture to his wife. Her father wanted his head too.

He had been in cheap motel. Room 207.

Marco Russo was supposed to be the smartest son.

Not smart enough.

We had him gagged and tied in the trunk of the SUV within five minutes of breaching the door.

Now we were back in the storage facility Saint owned.

There were concrete floors. Hooks in the ceiling. A drain in the middle of the floor.

Everything you needed to strip the truth out of a man.

Marco was naked, zip-tied to a steel chair and blood was dripping from the shallow cuts on his thigh.

Saint paced behind him, rolling his sleeves up like he was prepping to gut a fish.

Brooker sat on a crate in the corner, smoking a blunt and watching like he was waiting for his turn.

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