Page 113 of Reaper’s Wrath

“Guys, I’m telling you, you have the wrong man,” he says, arms raised high. “My name’s DiAngelo Farina. I’m not your Reaper. I can show you if you’ll let me.”

“Don’t care what your name is. You could still be the Reaper, so keep your fucking hands in the air,” yells one of the men wearing a flak vest and who looks especially trigger-happy.

“Stand the fuck down, Levitt,” calls another cop, this one in plain clothes. “You do have the wrong goddam guy, which is why I told you not to send in the fucking men.”

“How the fuck do you know?” Levitt shoots back at him, lowering his gun.

The officer, who looks remarkably like a walking, talking Ken doll with neatly styled blond hair and bright blue eyes, sighs heavily. “Because I know him. Farina, take off the scarf and show us your neck.”

I don’t have to see the skin to know the cop is right. The man across from me is DiAngelo, not Elio.

What on earth is going on?

D does as he’s told, lowering the stiff collar of his wool coat to a chorus of groans. They know about the scar, but they have no idea what the Reaper looks like.

They have no idea the two are twin brothers.

Judging by the horrified look the Russians exchange, neither did they.

CHAPTER 58

ELIO

We watched Ruban arrive, so we know he’s in the building. He keeps what I suspect is an office above a butcher shop—the shop his father owned before he died. It’s an old building near Brighton Beach on Long Island that we discovered Ruban now owns through a shell corporation.

That’s where he took my knife—the one we embedded with a tracking beacon.

Our listening devices at his house never picked up much activity. We were fairly certain he was onto us, but even then, he spent very little time at home. We knew there had to be someplace else he was frequenting. A center of operations where he might keep things like a trophy knife taken from an opponent.

Sure enough, we tracked the knife to the butcher shop building. A search of city records revealed his ownership and his father’s connection to the ground-floor shop.

This is where we take down the bastard.

We set up the meeting on the dock to ensure he had as few men with him as possible because we knew he’d be too chickenshit to show up himself. As suspected, we watched him walk in a few minutes ago when he should have been showing up at the docks instead.

Having DiAngelo’s help was a last-second addition to our plans.

I called him with a question about the docks, and when he pressed for more information, I took a chance and told him what we were planning to do. He offered to help. His presence is giving Michael and me a much larger window in which Ruban believes we’re occupied elsewhere.

He doesn’t know I have a twin.

Minutes after he arrived, the blinds on the second-floor windows are rotated to let in light. We can’t see in, but we don’t need to. I’m certain that’s where he’s hiding.

“You ready?” I ask Michael, who’s already grinning.

“Hell yeah. Time to storm the castle.”

It’s not exactly a siege considering we’re an army of two, but I get what he means. This building is Ruban’s stronghold where he feels safe, and we’re about to infiltrate when he least expects it.

“Let’s go.”

I lead the way, heading to the front of the building while Michael nonchalantly breaks off to circle to the back. We’re both dressed in street clothes with our weapons concealed. We have a few guys ready to back us up if needed, but didn’t want to go in with a large crew and risk tipping them off. If someone is watching camera feeds, our presence shouldn’t even register.

I bypass the elevator and head for the stairs. The second floor is dedicated to a single office suite.

“In position,” Michael's voice buzzes in my earpiece.

“Same,” I whisper back.