Page 67 of Dario DeLuca

"We got a lead on who popped off at the community center. Some smoke about an abandoned safe house on the south side. I’m about to drop you an address. Meet me there in fifteen."

Rafael doesn’t wait for a response before ending the call. A second later, the address dances across my screen. Hastily, I reach for the Sig Sauer, the Beretta, and extra clips. I grab the holster from the hook, slip it on, and stuff my guns into the slots. To conceal the weapons, I open the back seat of my truck for the black blazer I left in there and throw it on, then place the clips in the inside pockets.

Determined to put an end to this bullshit, I climb behind the wheel, toss the phone onto the passenger seat. The engine roars to life with the press of a button, and I guide the G-Wagon out of the garage.

The door glides close, the ten-foot-thick brick blending with the wall. One would never know it’s there, with how perfectly crafted it is—designed to keep motherfuckers out.

The entire building was redone in reinforced concrete, blast-proof in case of a threat. It’s a figurative gilded cage. So, when I promised the residents of this building that this is the safest building in Chicago, I meant it. It’s a seven-storybunkerfit for Armageddon itself.

I peel out of the alley and onto the main road. The drive to the location Rafael sent me is brief and silent, my mind constantly rotating with thoughts: Mia and the realization ofjust how much she means to me, the pain in her eyes when she thought she was going to lose her father, the fear that has yet to leave her beautiful body.

And the closer I get to my destination, to finally getting some fucking answers, those thoughts are replaced with pure unadulterated rage. This bitch-ass motherfucker has killed one of my men, burned down my warehouse, stalked, taunted, and shot at my woman.

Today, he dies.

Fuck the election. Fuck everything. I’m ending this shit tonight, and I’ll celebrate between Mia’s sexy-ass thighs.

I arrive and park in front of a brownstone. Not wasting time, I exit my truck and walk to the gate. Metal kisses my palm as I push open the gate. Its creak is a mournful song amidst distant sirens and murmured conversations.

Eyes track my every step, some blatant, most skittish—like deer aware they tread on a predator's territory. No one dares approach; even the brazen understand I’m not to be fucked with.

I ascend the steps, boots solid against stone, each thud a harbinger of the storm brewing in my chest. It springs open before I can wrap my knuckles against the paint-chipped door. Inside, the air is stagnant, thick with anticipation. Rafael leans against the wall, his face an unreadable mask. Beside him, Andre and Paolo stand rigid, their loyalty as unwavering as the steel in their spines.

"Boss," they murmur, nodding curtly, respect woven into the very timbre of their voices.

Two strangers emerge from the shadows, their hands extended. Their palms meet mine, and then their fingers snap in rhythm—a ritualistic dance of camaraderie.

“What’s up, Dario? I’m Ty,” the shorter of the two introduces himself.

I nod.

“Marquel,” the other adds.

"I think I got something you'll wanna hear," Ty begins, his voice a low rumble, a growl cloaked in civility.

“Go on,” I say with my arms folded.

"The shooting at the center wasn't just chaos. I saw someone slink away, real shady-like." The man sits and rests his elbows on his knees with his fingers interlocked. "While everyone was scrambling and running for their lives, this dude was just waiting in the cut. It wasn’t until they wheeled the mayor out on a stretcher that he snuck off.”

He pauses to pick up the beer can from the old coffee table.

“Of course, we thought that shit was suspicious, so I followed him," his companion adds. “He’s holed up in one of the crack houses off twenty-third.”

“Did you recognize him?” Rafael asks.

“Naw. But half of the dude’s face was burnt to shit,” Marquel continues.

As soon as the words leave his lips, I make eye contact with Rafael. Little do they know, they’ve just given us confirmation. All the clues, the crest, the newspaper clipping, burning my warehouse, and Santino, it's definitely someone associated with the Pescis. But who? We dug up the death records and everything we could find on the fire and confirmed the entire family had died that night.

“Why are you coming to us with this?” I ask when he’s done, skepticism threaded through my question. In our world, people don't do shit for free or because it is the right thing to do. Everyone has a price.

"Respect," Ty says, and Marquel nods, solemn as an oath. "He went after the mayor and did that bullshit in a crowded room.”

“Mayor Gordon is one of us, always looking out for the people, making sure the south side doesn't go forgotten. Andthe community needed that center, the kids needed it, and some punk ass bitch fucked with that. Besides, he’s about to be your father-in-law, and we know how the DeLuca’s roll,” Marquel adds. “Figured you’d want to handle that.”

“Which house?”

“Blue door,” Ty answers.

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