Page 118 of The Beast Who Begged Me

Behind me, Benedetti breathes out at last. I want to tell him this could lead us further away from the men we’re seeking, that we might be chasing another fucking ghost across the state line.

But if I say that, I might start believing it myself, and I can’t stop hoping.

If Caligula is there, I’m coming for him.

On the last stretch of road, we kill the headlights and roll in dark. A rusty stink invades the car, something brackish and chemical rotting out there beyond the ditches.

The location pin sits in the middle of an industrial sprawl that I bet the Russians own. It’s in a bad way: warehouses with their roofs caving in, weedy lots, chain-link sagging off posts. But all of that is just a buffer zone for the building we’re heading for in the middle. There’s no sign and no lights, but it’s given away by the scores of cars parked all around it. Luxury vehicles mingle with battered Hyundais, and there are more than a handful of motorcycles.

A mixed crowd.

And then I see a car I recognize: a matte black Hellcat with scarlet trim and the ultimate in stupidity for a license plate: GOODFELA.

“Big Gee’s here,” I tell Fontana.

“We could put them both down tonight if we’re lucky,” he says. “King and Big Gee both.”

“We find Caligula and Sammy first.” I make myself look away from the car. Big Gee can wait until I know where they are.

We park a little way out and walk the last few hundred yards to meet up with Vitali, Dellacroce, and Vicente. There are seven of us, so we have to stay low and keep quiet. But I already feel the noise, a bass-throb coming up through the soles of my boots before it ever reaches my ears.

Somewhere under that building, a lot of people are having a very good time.

And there’s a front door with two Bratva on it, big motherfuckers in good coats, looking bored, chain-smoking, each holding a Kalashnikov.

“They’ll know our faces,” Fontana murmurs.

And there’s no way through them without making noise. But then a muffled sound forces its way through the thick metal wall. It sounds like Russian to my untrained ear, until two words of English cut through, and the crowd takes them up and roars them back.

Little Emperor.

“Fuck,” Fontana says softly, as he sees my face.

Another roar rolls through the building, louder this time. Whatever they’re doing to Caligula, they’re doing it now.

I lean forward, ready to charge right through those goddamn Bratva with their shitty Kalashnikovs, but I’m grabbed back by Fontana and Victor fucking Gallo.

“Think,” Vitali snaps. “You want your guy coming out of there alive, you need to think.”

I make myself stop. Caligula is in front of a crowd baying for his blood, and every second we spend exercising our mouths out here is a second he’s coming closer to death.

But the others are right. Giving King a warning won’t help anything.

“We need a distraction out front,” Vitali says.

“Then make it fucking fast.”

“Gallo,” Fontana says.

“Who, me?” Gallo says, blinking back at him.

“You, Gallo,” I agree. “Time to show which side you’re on.” Because Gallo’s ink speaks a language the door will understand. Friendly flag.

Gallo sighs. “I mean, I literally killed my Capo⁠—”

“You’ve got the ink. They’ll listen to you—unless word’s out that you turned after Astoria, and they kill you instead.”

“Reassuring,” he mutters.