Page 14 of Corrupted Heir (Mafia Kings: Corrupted 1)

The man leading the charge pulled out a bolt cutter—where the fuck he’d been storing it, I had no idea. He cut the chains holding the front gate together like they were made of butter. The vehicles beyond the fence were abandoned, and we charged the building. A large parking lot on the right was filled up with one-ton vans—the kinds typically used for kidnappings. A decrepit warehouse took up most of the space on the property. Something told me the exterior was a façade to avert the eyes of police and citizens that passed by.

None of Belemonte’s men were outside. Strange. That man was one cocky—and stupid—son of a bitch.

Brute spun on his heel and raised his sawed-off shotgun in the air—his signature weapon. “You know the drill, boys. If it moves, it dies. No one left standing but us. Wipe their stench off the face of this earth so they can meet their Maker!”

A little showy for my taste, but his men let out a battle cry so intense it was like they were standing on a battlefield, ready to lay down their lives for their fucking king. Brute sure as hell knew how to inspire his people.

Just as the ruckus died down, a shabbily dressed Free Bird stepped out from the warehouse. The signature patch of his people—a red bird in flight—was stretched tight across his flabby arm. “What the hell’s going on out here?” he hollered.

Without a word, the group of Old Dogs approached the entrance and stopped a few feet short. Brute eyed the man up and down. “Hello, Chubs. We’re the new landlords, and we’re here to serve your eviction notice.”

“Woah, buddy. You have the wrong property. I have about a million shipments to package and don’t have time for this bullshit. Go along, or Harry will hear about this.” Chubs held a cigarette between his lips, drawing drag after drag without pulling it away from his mouth.

Brute let out a thunderous laugh. “You think swinging that dickhead’s name around is going to make me tremble in my breeches?” He shook exaggeratedly but stopped with a chuckle and spat on the ground next to him.

Brute was right. Belemonte was a piece of shit. He ran without rhyme or reason and thought he owned our streets. Back in the day, sure, he was a force to be reckoned with, but the drugs, money, and women ate his brain from the inside out. He’d lost whatever fucking mind he once had.

Chubs crossed his arms over his chest. “He’ll hear about this and fuck you up, buddy.”

“Oh, will he, buddy?” Brute cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t think Belemonte will be hearing about this. Well, not from you, anyway.” He paused as he watched Chubs inch his hand toward his pistol. It hung in a holster over his flabby hip. “Maybe he’ll hear about it in the newspapers. Or in the morning, when he sees this place is up in smoke… buddy.”

I chuckled under my breath.

Before he could pull out his pistol, Brute fired a shell square in his chest. One clean shot, and the guy fell backward as his cigarette tumbled next to him. Chubs was dead before he hit the ground.

I leaned against the wall to watch the show run its course. Despite my respect for Brute—the crazy, eccentric man he was—I was using him. He knew that. That’s how things worked in the underbelly of New York. Business was business, and everything else came second. The Old Dogs would serve their purpose tonight. They’d do my dirty work without drawing any unwanted attention to the Luca family, leaving us free to make our next move. A move Belemonte wasn’t going to see coming.

Brute ran back toward us. “Go grab the Molotovs, boys. Let’s raise some fucking hell.”

Ten of his men lit their Molotovs, but he grabbed a bottle from a blond boy who didn’t look old enough to be allowed a beer at the sleaziest 7-11. Brute walked over to me, a gleeful glint in his eye.

“I’ll give you the honorable first,” Brute said, holding out the bottle.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You really do have a soft spot for me,” I teased. I nodded and took the bottle of liquor. Why the hell not?

While I walked up to the building, a few Old Dogs spilled gasoline along the warehouse’s edge, on its walls, and through windows.

I raised the bottle in the air and chucked it then watched it explode into a vivid blaze of reds and oranges.

And then Brute’s men began their assault.

“Make sure no one gets out,” Brute roared. “Secure the perimeter, and burn it all to fucking ashes.”

After the fiery assault on the exterior and the sound of Brute’s shotgun, a few brave Free Birds tried to leave the building and make a stand. Not much of a fight though; they were shot down in seconds. The rest that tried to escape were executed.

The flames grew higher and higher. Molotovs flew inside and set it all alight as the air filled with a repugnant odor, a combination of smoke and burning narcotics—no fucking way that was good for the lungs.

I pulled out my pocket square and covered my mouth as Brute strode over, chuffed with a job well done.

“Now that’s how you do it,” Brute said with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “You impressed, Luca?” There was some more shooting, but it was near finished.

I nodded. “You’ve done well,amico. I am in your debt.”

There was some movement to the right where the vans were.

“Aw, shit, we hit the jackpot,” someone exclaimed as the back of one van after another was thrown open.

“Boss, we got booze, drugs, money, and guns in here! We’ve hit the fucken’ jackpot!” the blond kid said with his eyes nearly bulging wide open.

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