Page 15 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

Good.

Enzo's nostrils flare and his tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, the slow, deliberate movement of a man swallowing a response he can't afford to give. His cuffed hands shift on the table, knuckles whitening around the bones.

Missing cargo, shipment details leaked to authorities, random raids on operations that ran clean for years. None of it started out of thin air. Enzo left wheels turning before we locked him in this cell, men positioned against us, operatives flipped, pressure points mapped and handed off to whoever picked up the reins. We're not watching something new. We're feeling the delayed impact of a plan he set in motion long before the cell door closed.

I need to know who is behind it.

When he finally speaks, the words drag like gravel pulled through a rusted pipe. Pride makes every syllable brittle and coarse, each one cracking under the weight of giving me anything at all.

"Someone with real money and real access has been reaching into Bratva networks and pulling strings. I only helped them because I wanted you all out of my way.” Enzo lifts a shoulder. “Work smarter not harder. I simply used your enemies against you."

I don’t give a shit about his pride or feelings. He knows more than he’s telling me. "Who? How deep did you sink your tentacles into our operations, Marchetti?" I demand.

That pulls a smile across the fucker’s face. He watches the guard to my right for a few seconds before moving his lips. "Deep enough to reroute cargo at the port level without triggering your standard monitoring. How do you think I moved my merchandise?" He drags his eyes back to mine. "I dug deep enough to turn mid-level operatives against you who have been reliable for months now. Years. But what you’re experiencing now is someone who’s taken over where I left off. It won’t be long before you and your brothers are ruined."

I know bullshit when I hear it. He’s spewing a lot of words, but holding back the real meat of the truth. “And you know who it is.”

Marchetti’s grin widens, telling me he’s done talking.

I pull back and drop my hands into my lap, turning the ring on my finger. Why does everyone always want to choose death and pain?

"Anything else, Volkov? I have a party to get back to." Marchetti gestures to the cell, his bed and a single book lying in the middle of the shitty mattress.

Dark humor from a man rotting in a cell he earned. I can respect that, even if I can't respect the man.

“Your daughter sends a message.” I push to my feet and signal the guard to open the cell door. I hate to use emotional blackmail and a father’s connection with his daughter, but it’s not beneath me either.

“Oh?”

Light flickers across his eyes and for a second I see hope come alive in the old man’s expression. Shit. I feel like a rat bastard for using family members like this, but lives are at stake.

My chair scrapes against the floor, the sharp sound bouncing off the concrete walls. "She wishes you well and…" My words fall away.

“And what, Volkov? What else did she say?”

I'm at the door when his voice drops lower behind me.

"Volkov."

I stop, but don’t give him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye.

"The person behind this is not trying to steal from you, Volkov. They're trying to replace you. There's a difference." He pauses and moves to the bars, wrapping his spindly fingers around the cold metal bars of his prison. "And when they do, I’ll be alive to see them take everything from you. Just like you did me. I’ll spit in your face on the way down and piss on your corpse when they toss it in here with me. Mark my words."

“I’ll remember those words while your daughter signs everything over to the Red Letter men. All the Marchetti territory, its people, every last dollar and business. Everything you stole and bled for has our name on it. We own your daughter too. Your whole lineage is forever erased and marred with the blood of your enemy. Carry that knowledge to hell, Marchetti.”

As I walk away, I wink at him and laugh at his curses, wishing for my death. I leave Enzo Marchetti to his self-built purgatory.

Harlon Constantine leans against the corridor wall outside the cell block with his arms crossed and an expression that sits halfway between patience and calculation. The man runs Club Genesis the way a surgeon runs an operating theater. Precise, clean, and with a complete understanding that everything happening in this building exists because he allows it to.

"I see that talks ended pleasantly. Was he at least somewhat useful this time around?" Harlon pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me.

"Useful enough to keep breathing. He has names and knows who is behind the crimes against me and my brothers. Someone is playing games with our shipments. I’ll eventually break him."

"Stubborn fool." Harlon matches my stride without effort. "I'll extend the hold. Same terms."

"Same terms." I hand over a thick fold of bills. Harlon takes the money, tucks it into his coat without counting, and keeps walking. Fifteen years of clean payments and accurate counts bought that kind of shorthand between us.

We walk the length of the corridor in silence. I know when a man is deep in thought and I’m not the only one with problems. Harlon and his men are elbows deep in their own war. Mine is with an unknown face, but my friend here knows the demon he is fighting.