Page 54 of The Mafia King's Baby

As he pulls into traffic, Leonid asks, “How much worse?”

“There are corrupt agents in Los Angeles, Miami, and New York with connections to Russian, Italian, and South American crime families. Federal resources are being used to protect criminal enterprises and eliminate competition.”

“What’s our play?”

I look back at Celia, noting the fear and determination warring in her expression. She’s come too far to abandon me now, but she also understands that staying means accepting risks that could destroy her life completely.

“We go back to the compound and decide whether we’re going to run or fight.”

Celia asks quietly, “What does fighting mean?”

“It means using the information Leonid acquired during investigating to dig deeper until we have enough ironclad information to expose the entire corruption network before they can eliminate us. It means turning honest agents against corruptones and hoping we can survive the resulting war long enough to disappear.”

“And running?” she presses.

“It means giving up everything we’ve built, everyone we care about, and disappearing forever while letting them win.” I stare at her for a long moment. “Either way, this ends with us having to burn down these lives and start over. They’ll never stop looking for us if we try to return, especially if we reveal their ugly secrets.”

The choice should be simple. Survival trumps everything else in my world, but some things are worth fighting for even when the odds are impossibly bad.

Leonid glances at me again. “What do you think?”

“I think running just delays the inevitable. They have too many resources and too much reach to avoid forever.” I turn to face Celia fully. “But fighting means accepting casualties. Some of us might not survive what’s coming.”

Celia speaks before either Leonid or I can continue. “We fight.”

I study her face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. “Celia, you need to understand what you’re saying. This isn’t just about Lang anymore. It’s about a conspiracy that reaches the highest levels of federal law enforcement.”

“I understand.” Her voice carries conviction that surprises me. “I’m tired of running from consequences I didn’t create. If we’re going to be hunted regardless, we might as well make it count for something.”

Leonid nods slowly. “She’s right. Running just means living in fear forever. Better to choose our battlefield while we still can.”

I weigh our options one final time. The compound is equipped with loyal personnel and sophisticated defenses. It holds weapons and ammunition stored specifically for situations like this. Leonid has already dug up enough secrets top point us where to further investigate to get enough information to dismantle all our enemies, who have misjudged both our capabilities and our determination.

“Then we fight, and we make sure when this is over, the people responsible for threatening our lives pay the full price for their ambition.”

The decision feels right, even though it probably means we’ll all be dead within the month. Some things are worth dying for, and the chance to build something real with Celia while destroying the corruption that threatens everything I care about ranks high on that list.

19

Celia

The constant hum of electronics fills the compound’s main room where I spend most of my waking hours now. Three laptops sit open on the long table, their screens glowing with spreadsheets, encrypted files, and browser windows filled with government databases wo which Leonid somehow gained access.

I lean back in my chair and rub my temples, trying to ease the headache that’s been building behind my eyes for the past hour. It reminds me of Gemma’s solution of two ibuprofen and a shot of tequila to fix a headache, filling me with nostalgia and longing for simpler times for a moment.

“Find anything useful in the Miami field office records?” Leonid asks without looking up from his own screen. His fingers move across the keyboard with surprising speed for someone with hands that look like they could crush concrete.

I scroll through another list of agent assignments and cross-references. “Agent Torres has been involved in at least twelvemajor drug trafficking cases over the past two years, but half of them ended with plea bargains or evidence mysteriously disappearing.” I highlight the relevant entries and save them to our growing file. “Either he’s the unluckiest agent in Florida, or he’s actively sabotaging prosecutions.”

“Unlucky agents don’t drive sixty-thousand-dollar cars on government salaries,” Yefrem says from across the room where he’s been studying financial records spread across a second table. “Add him to the list of confirmed targets.”

The list has grown longer each day. What started as Marcus Lang and a few suspected partners has expanded into a network of fifteen confirmed corrupt agents across multiple field offices, with connections reaching into the highest levels of federal law enforcement. Every name we add makes our situation more dangerous, but it also makes our evidence more valuable.

I save the Torres file and stretch my arms above my head, noting the stiffness in my shoulders from hunching over the laptop for hours. The compound offers safety and security, but the isolation is starting to wear on me. The only people I see are Yefrem, Leonid, and occasionally, one of the security personnel who brings supplies or status reports.

A wave of nausea hits me without warning. I press my hand to my mouth and try to breathe through it, hoping it will pass like it has the past few mornings. Instead, it intensifies, and I have to rush to the bathroom down the hall.

I make it just in time, retching into the toilet while my stomach cramps painfully. When the spasms finally stop, I sit back on my heels and wipe my mouth with shaking hands. This is the fourth time this week, and it’s getting harder to pretend everything is normal.

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