Page 70 of Stabby Little

“You go first.”

“A friend of mine confirmed the reports about the cages and believes there could be more people at risk. Tell me the shit you won't post online because someone could sue you."

"We connected a recent killing to one of the boys who crawled out of the manhole. We weren't sure at first because no local media reported it. A FedEx driver pulled up to a house in Brooklyn and killed the owner. We located the FedEx driver and he said a young man tied him up and forced him into the back of his van. He was afraid to talk because he said the young man paid him for silence, but we promised we wouldn't share this information. After researching the dead man, we found out he had ties to the warehouse operators. The Diavolo Organization employed him and he frequently dropped off supplies at the warehouse."

My blood turns to ice. "Did you vet this story?"

"No. I promised not to share it with anyone. I refused to put him at risk."

"If this was true, MSNBC, Fox, and CNN would've picked up on it. You can't hide this type of information. It's a conspiracy theory of national proportions."

"They won't touch it with a ten-foot pole. After the lawsuits they've battled in the past two years, they refuse to risk their reputation on an unverified claim."

"Don't publish this shit." I prepare to end the call. "Someone could get killed if you do."

"Is that a threat?" The man's voice turns deadly. "We still have the Second Amendment in this country. You don't want to threaten us."

"It's not a threat. It's a warning."

I snap my phone off and stare at my laptop.

My head spins as I process everything the blog owner told me. How the fuck does he know about Gordon? No one—and I mean no one—knows about that shit. Michael and his brothers made sure that the media didn't run a story featuring Gordon's death.

If anyone investigated too closely, they'd discover links between Gordon and the Diavolos. But this man found the connection himself.

I have no idea if the theory about the warehouse boys killing Gordon checks out. But I must investigate it. I make a mental note to do that the second I meet up with Jagger.

I blow out a breath as I go over everything I know. When I first joined Michael's team, he told me the warehouse manufactured generic medication to help those in need. He showed me the pills that corner store pharmacies across the city carried.

They seemed legit.

They were generic omeprazole, a proton pump inhibitor commonly used to treat acid reflux. I take a version of it whenever I have a flare up. They also manufacture generic ibuprofen and acetaminophen, two common OTC medications to treat pain. I never toured the warehouse facilities, but other Diavolo hitmen did. Seth's guards entered the warehouse all the time—or at least the top floor.

Lies are whirring in from everywhere. Was the warehouse a genuine manufacturing facility? Or was it a front for human trafficking? Or an illegal drug front?

Or all the above?

I close my laptop and walk to my cabinet. After I retrieve my gin, I pour myself a stiff drink and retreat to my bedroom. My hands shake as I pull up Ollie's photo.

I stare at the innocent boy I knew seven years ago. A happy smile lines his features as his eyes sparkle with wonder. He stands next to Miles with a fishing pole over his shoulder, preparing to catch his lunch. I always drove Miles and Ollie to the countryside to fish on Sunday mornings if Linda didn't object.

Emotion floods my chest. I made a promise to this boy. I swore I'd protect him from danger, even though I had no way of knowing the worst danger was yet to come. I intend to keep that promise.

All other leads have gone cold. Every last one except the one that concerns Jagger's nephew's friend Nolan's disappearance.

I'm tossing back my drink when my phone rings.

I pick it up at once.

"Hello?"

"Dad." It's Miles. "How are you?"

My eyes drift to the window. "Fine. How are you?"

Miles's breath hitches. "There's something I need to tell you. I messed up."

I sit up in my bed. "Is this about Michael?"

---