Page 26 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
It won’t.
“Seventeen thousand, four hundred dollars.” I let that sit between us for a moment. “You have a wife. Christina. Two daughters. Emma’s eight, Sofia’s five. They go to St. Sebastian’s.”
The color drains from his face. “Please. Please don’t hurt them. This was my doing alone. They don’t know anything.”
“I know they don’t.” I slide my phone back into my pocket. “You think I’m the kind of man who hurts children? Who goes after families?”
“No. No, Boss, I just?—”
“You just panicked because you’re finally understanding how badly you fucked up.” I take another step closer. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Danny. I’m going to kill you tonight. Quick, painless, more mercy than you deserve. Your body won’t be found. Your wife will file a missing person’s report, and the police will investigate and eventually she’ll accept that you abandoned your family. She’ll move on. Your daughters will grow up thinking their father was a coward who walked away.”
“Please.” Tears are streaming down his face now. “Please, I’ll pay it back. I’ll work for free. I’ll do anything. Please.”
“Or.” I pull the gun from my shoulder holster. “You can die knowing your family is taken care of. Your wife will receive anenvelope with fifty thousand dollars cash and a letter explaining you died in a car accident out of state. Anonymous life insurance payout. She’ll grieve, but she’ll have enough money to keep the house and pay for the girls’ school. They’ll grow up thinking you were a good father who provided for them even in death.”
Hope flickers in his eyes. Desperate, pathetic hope.
“Which one depends entirely on what you say in the next ten seconds.”
“I’m sorry.” The words pour out of him. “I’m so fucking sorry. I made a mistake. A huge mistake. Please take care of them. Please. They didn’t do anything wrong.”
I raise the gun and aim at his head.
“Thank you.” He closes his eyes. “Thank you for?—”
The shot echoes through the warehouse even with the soundproofing.
Danny’s head snaps back and his body goes limp in the chair. Blood and brain matter spray across the concrete behind him. His eyes are still closed. He never saw it coming.
I lower the gun and turn to Viktor, who’s been standing by the door the whole time.
“Clean this up. Make sure the body disappears properly. And get that envelope to his wife by the end of the week.”
“You’re really going to pay her?” Viktor sounds surprised. He shouldn’t be. He’s worked for me long enough to know how I operate.
“I said I would. Danny made the right choice at the end. His family gets taken care of because he died acceptingresponsibility instead of making excuses.” I holster my gun. “Let this be a lesson to everyone else. Steal from me and you die. But die with dignity and your family doesn’t suffer.”
“Understood, boss.”
I walk out of the warehouse into the cold night air. My hands are steady. My breathing is calm. Killing Danny Russo doesn’t bother me any more than signing paperwork or making phone calls. It’s just another part of running this organization.
My driver is waiting by the black Mercedes S-Class parked fifty feet away. He opens the door without a word and I slide into the leather backseat.
“Office,” I tell him.
The drive from Red Hook back to Manhattan takes thirty minutes at this time of night. I use the time to scroll through messages on my phone. Updates from various operations. Financial reports. Status checks from people running different parts of my territory.
Six years ago I was just an enforcer working for my father. Now I run the largest independent operation in New York. Territory spanning three boroughs. Legitimate businesses mixed with illegal ones. Politicians on payroll. Cops who look the other way. Judges who rule in my favor.
I built this from nothing after I walked away from my father’s organization. He didn’t like it, but he respected it. In our world, you either earn your place or you die trying. I earned mine through blood and violence and being smarter than everyone who came before me.
The Mercedes pulls up in front of a fifty-story building in Midtown. The entire twentieth floor belongs to me. Import/export company on paper. Money laundering and logistics hub in reality.
I take the private elevator straight to twenty. The doors open onto a reception area that’s all marble and glass and expensive art. Empty at this hour except for the two guards stationed by the entrance.
They nod as I pass.
My office is at the end of the hall. Corner unit with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The view alone probably costs more per year than most people make. I pay for it because power isn’t just about what you can do. It’s about what you can afford to show.
