Page 147 of Stricken

For all intents and purposes, this is a real place of business and we have people in high places to protect us from unwanted intruders like local police or the FBI. Hell, we have people in the FBI too. Uncle wasn't just a figurehead. He secured a lot of useful alliances in his days.

I approach one of the supervisors, his face weathered and scarred. I shake his hand. Because that's what a good leader would do. He would humble himself in front of his people. He would ask questions and listen to the explanations intently to show his workers that he's not there to change things. He's here to make them better.

After a quick chat, I move on to the next portion of the warehouse, checking one truck after another, exchanging a few words with one of Uncle's lieutenants.

"Is Rinaldo not here?"

"He is not scheduled to work on this shipment," the man named Guido explains.

"I take it everything is on schedule?" I can't think of a better question for some reason. My thoughts shift back to Vlad. It reminds me of our operation to steal Tony's drugs from Salvatore. Reminds me of how Vlad saved my life. If he didn't care, he would have let me burn in that fire.

"Yes, boss," the man replies. "Everything's on schedule. The product is top-notch."

I nod, my mind already churning with ideas for improvement. "Good." I step away and whisper at Costa. "Reach out to our contact at the DEA. Set up a dinner. Somewhere private. I want to thank him."

"Will do."

I move deeper into the warehouse, inspecting the crates that still need preparation. A container off to the side, unlabeled, catches my eye. I push the lid open. Plastic packages of white powder are stacked inside. I pick up one and examine it. The mark of the Brazilian cartel we've been dealing with is on the side of the bag.

"Get me one of the workers," I order Costa.

He leaves to grab the nearest man.

"When did this arrive?" I demand. The package in my hand is at least two pounds. Again, only Brazilians pack their cocaine that way.

"I don't know,Padrino," the worker replies.

"What do you mean you don't know? All Brazilian product has to be out of the warehouses by the fifteenth. It's the end of the month."

The worker swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "It's been here for months. Since before your uncle's funeral. Rinaldo brought this in with his crew."

I feel like the ground shifts beneath my feet even though I'm standing on the cement floor.

"When?"

"Maybe ten weeks. It was right after the storm. I remember we had electrical problems that day."

I toss the package back into the crate. My mouth is suddenly dry and the leather of my gloves creaks with the strain as my fingers curl into fists.

The pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall into place, painting an entirely different picture of what I thought I was seeing. Ten weeks ago. Right after the storm, Vlad and I were still together. For a couple more days. And Rinaldo brought the Brazilian shipment. So, the coke never left the fucking family. Instead, Vlad left me.

The warehouse fades away, the bustling activity reduced to white noise. I don't get it. Why did he have to pretend he took the coke? Was it easier for him to be the bad guy than to be honest?

I yank at the tie, feeling like I'm suffocating, feeling like the oxygen itself has turned to stone.

My feet start moving. I brush past the men gathered inside. My eyes are focused on the exit, on the darkening sky colored by the streaks of blood-red sun.

I rush out of the warehouse and turn the corner. I can't have anyone see me like this—soft and emotional. Back pressed against the wall, I suck in a lungful of air.

What the fuck is going on?

"Padrino!" Costa appears in front of me.

"He's not going to let me go," I mutter under my nose, looking at the ground.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Find out which hospital he's in."

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