Page 56 of Down & Dirty: Reaper

He should’ve known better. Now he was fucked.

His wrists and ankles were bound to what his ass told him was a metal chair. He was also blindfolded and gagged.

But at least he was now conscious and better yet, still breathing.

For now.

If they knew—or even suspected—he was the one who had taken out fifteen of their soldiers, lieutenants, and capos, he might not be for long.

His head was throbbing, the ass cheek where he got “stung” was burning, and he still felt a bit out of it.

He’d been drugged. More than likely, from the feel of it, he’d been hit with a tranquilizer dart. No wonder he hadn’t seen anyone on the roof.

Someone had been a damn good shot.

They had beaten him at his own game. They took him out from a distance. Though, probably not from too far. The mob must have purposely picked tonight’s meeting spot because he would be forced to set up closer than normal.

Goddamn. He was outwitted and outplayed. Hopefully, they wouldn’t outlast him, but it wasn’t looking good. Because he was certainly outnumbered and he didn’t need his sight to know that.

La Cosa Nostra was a large crime syndicate. The fifteen members he took out hardly made a dent in their numbers.

He tipped his head and listened more carefully when footsteps approached.

If they only wanted him dead, he never would’ve woken up. That meant they wanted info.

They’d get it. But whatever information he fed them would be far from the truth. He’d never throw his team, or his new MC, onto the tracks of an out-of-control, speeding freight train.

When the footsteps stopped in front of him, it was followed by some heavy breathing. After his blindfold was ripped off his head, along with his gag, he saw why. The Sicilian standing in front of him was quite rotund. Someone loved their pasta and pastries.

No wonder the don, underboss, lieutenants, and capos met a lot at different restaurants around the city. Food might be important to the culture, but it was also smart to keep moving to new locations so no pattern was set.

Reaper ignored the man standing in front of him for the time it took for him to glance around and assess the situation.

From what he could see of the interior, he guessed it was the same old warehouse where the Russos had held Ledger. But since Reaper had only seen the exterior when Zeke retrieved his boy, he couldn’t be sure.

As expected, the man that approached wasn’t alone. The area where Reaper sat restrained had at least a half dozen of what Reaper recognized as lower level soldiers.

Basically, paid goons who were expendable. That was all they were. They were making sure he didn’t escape and also to protect the higher level member.

Most likely a capo.

He had no idea if the Russos had put two and two together and had identified him as a Shadow or DAMC member. The best scenario would be if they thought he was a lone wolf. If so, that could work in his favor.

But if the Mafia had been doing counterintelligence, he might be screwed. And so would the DAMC. The hits coming back to the club would put a huge target on them. Something they had been trying to avoid by pitting the Chens against the Russos.

The heavyset, olive-skinned man wore an expensive suit that had to be tailor-made for his build. He wasn’t getting that size off any damn rack.

The man pursed his lips around a lit cigar while he studied Reaper for a long minute. Once he completed his silent appraisal, he stated, “Cooperate by answering my questions truthfully and you might actually get a chance to walk out of here.”

That was a lie if Reaper ever heard one.

The man took a couple of puffs off the rank smelling cigar and the smoke rolled from between his lips when he asked, “Who are you working for?”

While the man’s English was good, Reaper had not been expecting him to have such a thick accent. It sounded like he’d stepped off a plane from Sicily only that morning.

But that was neither here nor there. It was time to weave a tale that Reaper hoped would keep him breathing. At least until he could figure a way out of this major fuck up. “A client.”

“Who’s the client?”