Page 86 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don
“What the hell?” Frank asks, joining us in the center of the warehouse floor.
I call for my men again, but there is no answer.
“They’re dead,” Frank says. “We heard shots fired in the offices first and rushed there, but too late. Then we heard a fucking war over here?” He looks around at the carnage and shakes his head. “These fuckers are growing braver.”
I close my eyes, hating that I’ve lost men. It’s a part of the world we live in, but it’s still fucked.
I holster my weapon, surveying the area around us. Eight bodies that I can count.
Not random thieves or rival soldiers making a territory grab.
These men were professionals. Had to be with the amount of coordination it took to pull this off.
"Check for ID," I order, already kneeling beside the nearest corpse.
The man's face is unfamiliar, his clothing nondescript.
No tattoos, no distinctive markings.
I search his pockets, finding nothing but a burner phone and a key card with no identifying features.
Roman turns over another body, his expression darkening. "Nothing. No wallets, no phones except burners. These guys are ghosts."
Frank examines a third attacker. "Same here. No identifying marks. No gang tattoos. Nothing connecting them to any Family I recognize." He nods to his other men. “You know them?”
Roman crouches beside one of the dead men, examining the tactical gear. "Military-grade equipment. Not your average street soldiers."
“Frank, how did you hear about this?” I ask.
“Like I said. Got a call from security. Why?”
“I suppose everyone knows you’d respond. How about me and Roman? Would anyone have known that?”
Roman’s brows lift. “You think this could have been a setup for us, specifically.”
I shrug. “I don’t know, but Antonio’s best men are here. Me and my best men are here…”
“Fuck.” Frank says, blowing out a breath. “We were all sitting ducks.”
The implications increase my worry. Someone knew Antonio's security protocols, knew which warehouse to target, knew who’d respond.
"Question is," I say, my voice hardening as I survey the faceless dead surrounding us, "who wants us dead badly enough to hire this kind of talent? Is this directed at Antonio or La Corona?”
"Could be Bratva. They've been pushing at the edges of our territory for months now,” one of Frank’s men, Georgio I think his name is, offers.
I shake my head. "Bratva would leave a message. They’d want us to know it's them.”
"What about the Irish?" Frank suggests. "Donahue’s been making noise since we shut down his distribution channel through the port."
"Possible," I concede, but deep down, I don’t think so. This feels different. Too clean. Too precise.
“What’s clear is that this wasn’t just territory or product. This was an elimination attempt."
Frank nods grimly. "And they nearly succeeded."
"Roman, we need Falcone on this." I refer to Captain Michael Falcone, our most valuable asset in the police department.
Roman nods, already pulling out his phone. "What do you want him looking for?"
