Page 109 of Madness & Mercy
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “I want Braga’s head first.”
“Good. Then get in. Let’s go hunting.”
The Maserati growls beneath us as we speed down Delano, slick red and hungry for blood. Julian rides shotgun, arms crossed, a storm building behind his eyes.
“Say it,” he mutters, not even looking at me.
I glance over, arching a brow. “Say what?”
“You’re pissed at me.”
I smirk. “I’m always pissed at you.”
“Yeah, but this time it’s different. You’re quiet.”
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m focused.”
“That so?”
“You said you wanted Braga’s head. I’m making that happen.”
He goes silent for a beat. Then, “So you believe me now? About everything that happened?”
“I believe you want him dead,” I say. “That’s enough for now.”
Julian exhales, the tension between us getting tighter with every passing block. The Maserati turns a corner, and the auto body shop appears like a greasy wound in the concrete. Nothing flashy. Just a rusted sign, flickering light, and an open bay door.
But I already know this isn’t a shop.
It’s a fucking front.
I park across the street, glancing in the mirror to see Enzo pull up behind us in the Benz. Luca’s already circling on the bike, scoping exits.
Julian shifts beside me, hand already on his gun.
“You ready?” I ask.
He smirks without humor. “I’ve been ready.”
Inside the body shop, it smells like oil and cheap cologne. Half-naked cars are lined up under hanging lights, but there’s no sound of wrenches. Just silence.
Then a door slams somewhere in back.
Luca moves fast, grabbing the first guy he sees by the collar and slamming him against a stack of tires. “Where is he?” he snarls.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
Enzo kicks open another door, dragging out a second guy. “Lying little fucks.”
Julian and I move deeper into the shop, following the hallway behind the garage. There’s a steel door half open. I push it wider, and what I see makes my blood run colder than it should.
Three heavy suitcases. Two stacked with cash. One full of neatly packed kilos of coke, sealed and glinting under the dim light.
Julian freezes.
His eyes aren’t on the money—they’re locked on the cocaine.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
