Page 2 of Corso DeLuca

I drop my forehead to his. “No more keeping secrets from me, big guy.”

My voice cracks. I swallow the tears on the verge of falling. Greg lifts pale digits, struggling against invisible cuffs. With flagging strength, he retrieves a wad of paper from his pocket, no, it’s a crumpled envelope.

“Ta-Take this, baby girl,” he rasps, shoving it in my direction.

When my blood-soaked fingers touch his offering, Greg sighs with a ragged relief that cuts me open, exposing my fear. Then he blinks. Pressing closer, I wait for him to say more.

He doesn’t.

I watch in horror as his eyes lose focus and drift closed. One second—two—three. Open your eyes, damn it. His grip on my arm loosens. My heart rate thunders like a team of horses free from their reins. The quiet is deafening. In a moment of panic, I lose it, clutching his cold digits in my smaller grip.

“Greg!” I yell, shaking his lifeless body.

His eyes open. They’re glossy with death’s view shining brighter than life’s. After roaming our diminutive shadow on the wall, his gaze lands on me. His brows crease as if he’s searching for something that’s lost. I see the moment he decides the last gem that he will give me before departing this world filled with pain and sacrifice.

“Cor-so.”

I still at that name. There’s only one man I know with that name—he’s a mastermind. A treacherous force in the most savage and lethal family in Washington DC area with global ties in organized crime—Corso DeLuca.

“A DeLuca did this to you?” I question.

“Find—get him,” Greg implores before a gush of blood spills from his slack lips. Then his head falls away. The weight of his absence is immediate. My heart cracks open. Everything I need to survive leeches from my broken heart. In the dark, I’m holding onto the envelope and Greg. The cold invades my empty shell. No… I’m not empty.

All my rage, my hate, my broken life is channeled into one mission. I will do more than find Corso DeLuca—I will carve my fucking initials in his evil DeLuca heart.

ONE

Jessie

Seven months of watching and waiting ends today. We received a tip that Corso DeLuca is actually in his modern-day fortress, The Governor. It’s an all-inclusive DC hotel catering to the nasty human sludge that has corrupted my city for decades. I’m not talking free meals with alcohol included.

No.

He’s built a sanctuary for the criminally-inclined traveler. A sort of safe haven where contract kills are forbidden on the grounds. The gold shield on my hip says fuck The Governor’s rules and fuck its owner. Greg’s envelope contained a word puzzle, it’s stapled inside my tactical vest. I know it’s evidence. I know I should’ve turned it in months ago, but keeping him close to my heart, well… it’s like he’s sharing in this victory with me, toppling king Corso in his kingdom. Inside the envelope was one of those computer-generated custom word games. Worn at the edges, the paper has permanent crease lines now. I’ve dissected the medical-themed cross word puzzle filled with misspellings a thousand times since Greg’s death. Even now, sadness shrouds my satisfaction at nailing Corso DeLuca’s balls to the mat. My inability to decipher Greg’s final messages hurts so deep. Corso will pay for that too. Heavy chrome and glass doors separate the DeLuca den of vipers from the safety of DC’s streets. Considering the staggering murder statistics in the nation’s capital, that speaks volumes to the danger of this encounter with Corso DeLuca and his known associates. Once through the front door, we move at an easy pace, like the tip of the arrow, we are servers of justice walking the straight and narrow in a haven of evil.

“I can’t wait to see the asshole’s face when I slap my cuffs around his wrists. Best Friday night this year.”

That’s my new boss—a long-time yes man with half of Greg’s talent and double his political influence within the bureau. I’m sure he received extra gold stars for taking on the problem agent—me. The director thinks I’m pissed because every agent pales in comparison to my former partner.

Not true.

The job comes with inherent risk. I get that, but I expected the bureau to assign me another partner. What I got was a babysitter who monitors my every step.

For months, I’ve studied everything the bureau has on the enigmatic Corso Emmanuel DeLuca. College educated, detailed-oriented, meticulous in his planning, deadly in his execution. With the connections the DeLucas have amassed within the underworld and the fear they’ve sown through local law enforcement, any one of the uncles, brothers, or cousins would be a formidable opponent. But Corso had the foresight to unite all the crime families under his banner by creating a safe haven with The Governor.

We have no idea the reception we will receive once we reach the mafia heir himself. At my hip, my Glock is solid, a two-pound weight that gives me a measure of comfort. Greg trained me to always have a backup, so the 22 at the small of my back and the blade hidden in my boot are a second skin to me. Since his murder, I keep both under my pillow. Not that I’m sleeping. Without his steady heartbeat lulling me into a deep slumber, my nights are spent daydreaming of Corso’s body riddled with bullet holes. Tapping the team lead on the shoulder, I say.

“Once we’re inside, Corso DeLuca is mine.”

Vince Teal, the senior agent in charge, simply nods. “Fine, but no peacocking.”

I try not to choke on the fact that I’m the tag along on my own case. My professional reputation has limped along on life support ever since Greg’s murder, as a growing mountain of suspicion surrounds my actions. Both of us have been tainted, a step below dirty cop, thanks to Corso DeLuca. I see the questions on my once comrades’ faces. Questions unspoken, but they act as my judge and jury with their indifference to my presence. How did you survive when your partner with more field experience did not? It’s a question I drown out in the liquid swirls of my vodka glass. A song with the saddest melody plays in my head when I’m alone. The melancholy won’t release me until I mete out justice for Greg.

I roll my eyes. “Do I look like a fucking long neck bird robed in feathers of many colors, Teal?”

A snort sounds from behind me. “That’s rich, even for you, Vince.” Brent chuckles.

I’m sandwiched between Teal and Brent Donaldson, a reverse Oreo cookie, who garner the eyes of every patron as we continue our processional through The Governor. Honest to goodness, the interior is magazine worthy. Only a few of the case files capture the magnificence of the soaring white marble columns framing the grand entrance. The lobby is a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of top grain red and black Italian leather paired in small private groupings. These are the colors of the DeLuca crest in blatant display. Gleaming harlequin black and white tiles draw the eye to the lush green gardens with flowing water fountains and babbling tranquil pools. Club Al Di La is carved in elegant script on the wall to our far right. Straight ahead is our target, the reception desk.