Page 9 of Corrupted Empire

The table erupts with concerned murmurs.

“It’s too dangerous!” Dom objects.

“Traps backfire too easily,” Mirko adds.

Just as expected.

Antonio only nods sagely. Silvano’s lips pull into a thin line, and he scrubs a hand over his face, considering the idea. His eyes light up, and I know that I have him on board.

I stand up, pressing my hands against the cool wood of the table. “Silence!”

The murmur dies, and I have everyone’s rapt attention once more. I look between their faces, expressions reading a scale from concern to excitement.

“I hear your misgivings,” I say, “but this is not up for discussion. We will not survive years of war. We need to lock this city down.”

I sit back in my chair, jaw set tight. “And we need to do it now.”

4

Alexis

My heart is breaking.

Since I first started looking into the purple heroin crisis, I have heard a lot of sad stories. I have seen horrible things. And so far, I’ve been able to numb myself to it. But for some reason, the sad, crumpled woman in front of me is bringing stinging tears to my eyes, and I feel as though I will break down any second.

“This was him at his high school graduation,” Shelley Wallis says, a wistful smile curving her lips as she passes me a framed photo of a young, pale-faced boy. Her smile does not reach her eyes.

“He wanted to be an engineer,” she continues. “He loved bridges. He had a poster of the Brooklyn Bridge in his room, and every time we would pass over one he would say, ‘Mom, look at those cantilevers,’ or ‘check out the thickness of those cable stays.’” She sniffs, dropping her gaze to the hands in her lap. “I don’t even know how a boy like that gets involved in hard drugs.”

I look at the photo of the boy in my hands. His dark hair, his bright blue eyes, his crooked smile. He’s the spitting image of his mother, though her eyes are tired, and her smile is a ghost of what I imagine it used to be.

I sniff as well, trying to maintain a level of professionalism but struggling. Maybe it’s because this kid—Henry Wallis—could be Harry one day. What would I do if Harry started down a dark path? WhatcouldI do?

I take a breath and hand Shelley back the photo.

“When did it start?” I ask.

She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. “I think just before his graduation,” she says. “He always struggled to make friends, so when he started hanging out with a new group, I thought it would be good for him. I didn’t know at the time that they were into drugs, not until Henry started staying out late and coming home looking ragged and tired. Money started disappearing from my purse.” She bites her lip, hugging the photo to her chest. “We drove over an amazing suspension bridge on the way to visit my mother, and he didn’t say a word. Nothing.”

My heart hurts for this woman. I wonder if Gabriel has had these thoughts, if he’s worried about raising a child among all the violent delights of this world. I wonder what Gabriel would do if Harry started to sink down into the muck of it.

“Eventually, Henry stopped coming home,” Shelley continues. “He told me that he was staying with friends and that I shouldn’t worry, but I did. I wish—” She chokes, features twisting with agony. “I wish I’d gone and dragged him home.”

I rest my hand on her knee, blinking back tears of my own. “You couldn’t have known, Shelley.”

“I know, I know.” She pats my hand, collecting herself. “At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

“What happened next?” I ask gently.

“I got a call from a man,” she says, voice shaking. “He had a thick accent. Latino, I think. He told me that my son’s friends were in deep with the Cartel, that they’d lost the drugs they were supposed to be selling, and that I needed to get twenty thousand dollars to them by the end of the next day. Otherwise they were going to kill my son.”

My stomach twists. I already know how the story ends, but that doesn’t make it any less horrific.

“I dug into my savings and Henry’s college fund and wherever I could scrape the money from. I brought it over to this house, this horrible-looking place, where the man said Henry and his friends had been staying.” She takes a break, sobbing quietly.

I squeeze Shelley’s hand, and a tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it away, taking a deep breath.

“They had killed them all,” she says quietly. “One man was waiting there for me. He put a gun to my head and took the money. He told me that one of my son’s friends had tried to escape and that it was his fault my son was dead. Like that was supposed to shift the blame.”

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