Page 13 of Corrupted Heir (Mafia Kings: Corrupted 1)

Ruthless. Tough. Like modern-day Vikings, but their steeds roared through the streets and could reach speeds of one-hundred and fifteen miles per hour. The bikers and the mafiosos had never liked each other in New York. But, in recent years, my father and I had come to realize they could be tremendously useful when we needed their brute force.

They weren’t on the regular payroll—that wasn’t the way Brute worked. Inconvenient at times, but I respected Brute and his men. They had a set of rules, values they lived by, just like us. And if we were going to wipe out that cartel, we wanted it done in Brute-style.

Right on cue, Brute strode in from the back of the bar and spotted me instantly—the benefit of sticking out like a sore thumb.

“Dominic, my boy!” he exclaimed, making his way across the peanut shell-covered floor with arms wide open.

I stood up and shook his hand when he reached the table. “It’s good to see you, Brute.”

He truly lived up to his name whether it was real or made-up. Even at my height of six feet and three inches, Brute towered over me, and his shoulders were twice as broad as the average man’s. He wasn’t an old man though. About my age, if I had to guess. And although bikers in this town wore leather cuts, Brute, the leader of the Old Dogs did not. Dressed in jeans and a V-neck, he looked like an ordinary man—albeit a big one.

“A round of the good stuff for me and my friend here, Ella, if you don’t mind,” he called to the pretty waitress who smiled gratefully and extricated herself from a group of young admirers to do his bidding.

Brute sat down, and I followed suit. Now that the patrons here saw me with their boss, his minions abandoned their evil glares and avoided eye contact like their lives depended on it. I smirked at the sight of it.

From his pocket, he pulled out a cigarette box lined with velvet then patted his pockets while the coffin nail hung from his lips.

When he came up empty-handed, I pulled out my lighter, flicked it open, and cupped the flame. He puffed in deeply and let out a satisfiedah.

“Could I offer you one?” he asked.

“Thank you, but I don’t smoke. I quit a long time ago.”

Brute chuckled. “That’s funny for a guy who flirts with death on the daily, caring about his health.”

His laugh was contagious. “What can I say? One less thing to worry about.”

“So,” he said as the laughter died away, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, my friend?” For some reason, he’d taken a liking to me. Maybe it was my sunny disposition? Bikers and mafiosos were generally like cats and dogs—not a good combination, even if they were forced to work together.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Free Bird’s recent betrayal.” There was no sense in beating around the bush. We were both busy men.

“For such a big city, news spreads fast. Of course, I heard about those idiots fucking you over. I know we’re all bastards and brawlers, but would it kill them to have a shred of decency, for fuck’s sake.”

My sentiments precisely. I nodded.

“So, who do you need me to fuck up, my friend?” Brute flicked his cigarette in the small crystal ashtray at the center of the small table.

“We want to hit them hard and fast. We could go in guns blazing, but I think your team’s particular skill set is exactly what we need.”

“No one’s ever called them ‘my team’. I like that.” Brute chuckled. “So, you’re looking for a little… heat, are you? We’ll teach them a lesson for messing with my buddy.”

“Great. I’ll see you there,amico.”

***

Like the president in his motorcade, the McLaren was surrounded by the Old Dogs, and leading the charge was one of Brute’s closest men. If nothing else, this was going to be fun. And I hadn’t had a taste of that in eons.

“Now, I’m not one to question the Lucas,” Brute said from the passenger seat of the McLaren, his large frame nearly spilling out of it. “But this is the last chance to change your mind, and all that shit.”

“I’ve been called many things,amico, but indecisive isn’t one of them.” I laughed heartily, and he joined in.

The hustle and bustle of the city disappeared behind us. I didn’t need to be here for this, but I wanted to be. Brute and his Old Dogs were capable men, so there was no reason to stick around and supervise. But I had never seen Brute in his element before. I’d heard countless horror stories of the things Brute had done, and I was wildly curious to see how it went down.

The Old Dogs were the fringe class, most of whom worked for drugs, booze, and, occasionally, cash. They didn’t live in palaces like we did. But damn, did they have a knack for arson. And while we weren’t looking for yet another war, we needed to send a message to Belemonte. A message that made it clear no one fucked with the Lucas without consequences.

The destination of the night was one of the Free Bird’s main hubs, a large warehouse in a shitty area of town. The money we’d invested in our little intel gatherers had paid off. According to them, tonight was the perfect night for what I had planned. The Free Birds had just received multiple large shipments and would be hard at work cutting and repackaging their goods. What a scummy piece of shit, Belemonte. If you’re going to sell drugs, at least make them pure, for fuck’s sake. Too many people had died using Belemonte’s cut goods, and that was just wasteful. Keep killing off your clientele, and one day, you’d have none left.

The streets were quiet and dark, with only a few riffraff wandering around. They weren’t anything to worry about. The streetlamps were off, and as we stopped at the woven iron fence, we turned our engines off.

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