Page 93 of Luciano

“Two by the dock,” I said. “They look like they’re going in through the back door…”

Brooker raised his rifle. “You want the welcome party?”

“No. We’re going in quiet. There are other cabins nearby.”

Saint cracked his knuckles. “I’ll take care of the two in the back.”

“Leave the father to me,” I said.

We approached, silent as ghosts.

We all had our way in. Brooker climbed to the second-story window.

Saint was ahead of me, going through the back door.

I entered, stepping over two bodies he’d put down quietly.

The air smelled like bleach and old wood.

“Luciano,” Saint’s voice came through my earpiece. “It was just him, guards, and the son. They’re upstairs. Third door.”

“Status?”

“Bleeding.”

The upstairs hallway was quiet.

I found everyone in a bedroom at the end. Giovanni Russo. Thinner than I remembered. Hair still Greasy.

He was tied to a chair, sobbing.

His son, Angelo, was already slumped in a chair, blood trailing down his temples. Saint had been gentle.

Russo Sr. looked up when I walked in.

“Luciano,” he wheezed. “Let’s talk.”

I shut the door behind me.

Brooker didn’t move, just kept the gun trained on Russo’s head.

Saint looked up briefly from his phone and gave a lazy nod before returning to whatever he was doing.

I walked to the middle of the room.

Giovanni shifted, the chair creaking beneath him. “You’re smarter than this. You don’t need to—”

I backhanded him.

His lip split. Blood welled.

Saint didn’t look up.

Brooker chuckled.

“You had your chance,” I said, my voice flat. “The deal we made was sufficient.”

Giovanni blinked fast. “It wasn’t—”

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