Page 4 of His Deadly Lies

He’s been waiting for me back here, watching to make sure the shipment arrives and everything is kosher.

The SOS prefacing his text means something’s gone fucked where the business should have been running smoothly.

There's been a problem for months now, but no one is willing to call it that. Not Papa, not Uncle Henry, or Uncle Paolo, who is really my father’s right-hand man and no relation.

The three of them might as well have their heads buried in the sand, or darker, smellier places, for all their willingness to listen to my complaints that our shipments have been light.

A tiny speed bump, nothing that will be repeated, I remember Paolo saying when I first mentioned the missing boxes. Demolished easily enough with words or a gun, depending on how hard the speed bump fights back.

How will tonight play out?

Papa has other business to consider, which is why he sent me out to check the shipment tonight. I had a clear plan in place. Wait for the signal, inspect the merchandise, report back, and go. As simple as pie and just as American.

The third martini is the biggest extent of my rebellion and all that’s allowed.

Rafel delicately clears his throat, still holding the door open as I waste time caught in my head, and I square my shoulders. Rather than focus on the men themselves, their faces unfamiliar, I drop my attention to the boxes. It’s better not to humanize the workers.

Which sounds shitty, but it’s all part of this lifestyle. And for me, there’s never been another choice.

The oldest. The oldest in a long line of smugglers and businessmen.

A victim of fate and circumstance, and now those boxes are my priority. I can already tell we’re missing more than a few.

“Talk,” I demand right off the bat.

Some days, I’m not sure if these clowns are more afraid of me or my father. But they’re right to fear both of us. I’ve seen men chewed up and spit out at the breakfast table before I turned six. It was as much a part of life as learning to tie my shoes or riding a bicycle for the first time.

Serve the family. Protect the empire.

Punish anyone who steps out of line. It’s a rinse-and-repeat kind of deal.

“We’re sorry, Miss Balestra. It was an accident. It’s not like we meant for anything to happen to the boxes,” the older one tells me.

I feel rather than sense Rafel step up behind me, no doubt crossing his arms over his chest like he’s some kind of Arnold Schwarzenegger even though he’s only five ten and built like a toothpick. A strong toothpick, but he wouldn’t win a bodybuilding contest.

“I don’t want excuses. Tell me what happened.”

Pretty face. Bland smile. Hint of violence in the eyes, and all the while assessing. Everything went on the truck the way it was supposed to, heading from San Diego, California, all the way through the western expanses of nothing-but-shit-and-tornados until it reached us tonight, on the edge of Lake Erie.

Mafia in Ohio.

It still surprises me to think about it.

Somewhere along the line, these guys must have stopped outside of their designated route because the Balestras have men at each of the weigh stations to make sure the shipment reaches us intact.

Where did we lose the boxes?

“We did everything we were supposed to do,” the one on the left assures me. Older, yes, with a hint of gray already in his hair, while the one on the right looks to be in his early twenties. And far guiltier.

Ah, so the older man feels protective of the other one. How is this going to play out?

“Oh? So there is nothing wrong, then?” I ask sweetly.

I scan the boxes at the feet of the two men, counting silently in my head. A hint of anger slips through my mask. We’re three packages short.

I send a sharp glance to the first man, the one who mistakenly makes eye contact after gazing leisurely at my legs.

“Where did the truck stop?” I asked, my voice a whip of sound. The man on the left flinches. “Where did we lose three of our crates?”

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