Page 20 of Power
"You look like you’re about to break something," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.
"Maybe," I mutter, throwing my coat over the back of the chair. "Got some new intel. A police mole gave us a nice little present. But now it looks like we’ve got a bigger problem. Thecops are tightening their grip on the arms deals. They’re sniffing around, Raffaele. We need to move fast, find a way to stay ahead of them."
Raffaele doesn’t look surprised. He never does. "So, what’s the plan?"
I grab the stack of papers from the desk and slam them down in front of him. The intel’s clear, and I’m already working out how to use it.
"We turn the tables on our competitors. Let them think they’ve got the upper hand while we move in on their territory. We’ve got the muscle and the money, and now we’ve got the police angle. We push harder, faster."
Raffaele nods slowly and his eyes narrow as he thinks it through. "Could work. But it’s risky. You’ve got to be careful with the cops."
"I’ll handle them. We just need to get the deal done." I slam my fist on the desk, letting the frustration bleed through. "I’m tired of playing defense."
He looks up at me. "Then let’s get to it."
I don’t waste any time. I pick up my phone and call the buyers, telling them the deal’s on. The next few hours are a blur of preparation. I can feel the weight of the plan pressing on me, but I push it down. I’ve got this under control.
When the time comes, the buyers arrive. The room is tense as I walk in with Raffaele beside me and the other men trailing behind. There’s a long table between us and the buyers, but the space doesn’t feel big enough. Every movement, every word, feels charged.
I take my seat, eyeing the man in charge of the buyers. He’s got a hard look about him, like he’s seen things he shouldn’t. But I don’t care. This isn’t about him. It’s about the transaction.
We go through the motions—talking prices, shaking hands, making small talk. I don’t care about any of it. Not until I’mstaring down at the files I’ve been reading, the ones with the intel from the police mole. It hits me like a punch in the gut. One of these buyers has ties with the FBI. He’s an informant.
The room feels like it’s closing in on me. My blood starts to boil. I’ve been played. I should’ve known. My gut tells me that something’s been off this whole time. But now, I have the proof. I shove the papers into the center of the table, my eyes locking onto the man who’s been feeding information to the FBI.
"You," I say. "I know what you’ve been doing. You’re a rat."
The buyer’s eyes widen for a split second before he covers it up with a chuckle. "You’re mistaken, Bellini. What are you talking about?"
"I’m not mistaken," I reply, my tone flat. "You’ve been talking to the FBI. I’ve got the intel to prove it."
The man’s face tightens, and the mood in the room shifts. The other buyers look between us, clearly uncomfortable. The head buyer stands up, his fists clenched. "What the hell is this? You’re accusing me of being some kind of informant?"
"You’re damn right I am. I know exactly who you’ve been talking to. And I’m not going to let you walk out of here without answering for it."
The man is seething, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You have no idea what you’re doing, Bellini. You can’t just call someone out like that. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into."
I stand slowly and rest my hands resting on the edge of the table. "Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing."
The buyers all look nervous, waiting to see who will blink first.
The man in front of me steps forward, ready to lash out. "I’m going to rip that smug look off your face," he growls.
I don’t even raise an eyebrow. "You’ll have to try a lot harder than that." I gesture to my men. "Take him."
Raffaele steps forward, his grip like iron as he grabs the informant and drags him toward the back of the room. The man struggles, but it’s no use. He’s not getting out of here.
I wait until the room empties out before I follow them down the hall. My blood is still boiling. My mind races, full of fury. This kind of betrayal… it’s the worst kind. And I’m going to make sure it’s dealt with.
In the back room, the man’s pleading. He’s begging for mercy, for a way out. But I don’t feel sorry for him. Not even a little bit. I need to get this out of my system, need to remind everyone that no one crosses me and gets away with it.
I grab the baseball bat. The sound of it cracking against his ribs is satisfying. The man yells, but I don’t care. I keep going, hitting him again and again, focusing on the places that will hurt the most. His face is starting to swell, his screams turning to whimpers.
The rage inside me is growing, and I can’t stop it. Every hit, every crack of bone, feels like it’s chipping away at something inside me. I need this. I need to prove a point. I need him to understand the cost of crossing me.
Finally, when I’ve had enough, I pull the gun from my waistband. His eyes widen in terror, but I don’t hesitate. I fire once, right between his eyes. The sound of the shot echoes in the room, final and unforgiving.
When I walk out of the warehouse, I’m still pissed. And I know it’s something else, something more than just the mess I left behind in that back room. It’s her. Ever since she walked into my house, my usual cool has been ruined. Every time I think I’ve got control, I feel that pull. The way she looks at me like I’m something she can figure out, like she’s got me all mapped out in her head.
