Page 57 of Mafia King's Forbidden Obsession

“Liam Pratt? Who’s that?” I ask.

Elio immediately pulls out two photos tucked into his suit jacket and hands them to me. I recognize the first picture from before we stormed Russo’s apartment. It was the picture of him and another fellow in the alley, the man Elio had said was a small-time dealer. The fellow’s face is obscured in this photo.

When I look at the second photo, my breath catches in my throat. A man with the same build is in a jacket, FBI written boldly over the breast pocket—he’s the same person from the first picture. His blue eyes gleam as his lips spread in a smile for the camera.

“He’s an informant for the task force.” Elio’s voice is grim.

Elio’s words echo in my mind. Either Russo’s feeding them information, or he’s working directly with the task force. He must be slipping them every move we make, everything he’s learned about the cartel from Tomasso.

I clench my fist as the pieces fall into place. It becomes clear that the entire border operation was specifically aimed at my cartel. What initially appeared to be a Trojan horse, masked as a campaign for order, was actually a scheme where I am the primary target.

“Russo is indeed working his ass off…” I hiss, my teeth grinding as my mind works. “And Miller claims Paterson’s clean and incorruptible?” I scoff.

“Un'altra cosa(One more thing),” Elio adds, drawing closer to me and tapping on a particular bank statement highlighted in purple on the next page. “Seems like he’s also somehow associated with the alias.”

When I see the nameTsvetok Smerti,my pulse quickens, and anger bubbles inside of me. “Paterson is connected with Smerti somehow, just like Russo.”

My second-in-command nods. “Smerti is well hidden. He’s a ghost.”

I feel a growl rising in my throat. “Dov’ Paterson(Where’s Paterson)?”

Elio quickly replies. “His home. Detached bungalow at this address.” He points at another page from the papers in my hand. “Do I get the men ready?”

“No.Voglio farlo da solo(I want to do this alone).”

Elio obliges. “He’s got security, but nothing you can’t handle.”

“Take charge of things here, Elio. I’m going to pay this bastard a visit immediately,” I grit, closing the file and taking it with me out of the office.

The air outside is thick and cold. My car comes into view as I reach where it’s parked.

I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut, my eyes narrowing as I grip the wheel. Igniting the engine, I drive out of the parking lot and onto the road.

I drive fast, the city blurring past in a rush of lights and darkness. The streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement, and every now and then, I catch my reflection in the mirror—my jaw set, eyes hard.

After a few minutes, I pull up two buildings across from Paterson’s. The street is quieter here, save for a few dog walkers at the farthest end. Expensive cars are parked along the curbs of similar bungalows, streetlights casting long shadows. I can tell that whatever action I take, provided it’s subtle, will face little or no external interference.

The identical houses that line the street are all modern, new homes with clean lines, big windows, and low-pitched roofs.

I take in Frank’s house, spotting two security personnel on the porch playing cards. I pick up a silencer from the pigeonhole and screw it onto my gun as I calculate what to do next.

Then I take off my suit jacket, pick up the file on Paterson from the passenger seat, and tuck the stack of papers under my arm.

With my head tucked into my chest, I cross the street and walk close to the shrub fence. Stealthily, I crouch and scope out the front porch, gun at the ready to take out the guards.

The cold night air bites at my skin, but it is not a deterrent to my plan. With two clean shots to the head, the men dressed in black crumple to the ground.

Moving fast, I approach the entrance. Once there, I test the doorknob, which is unlocked. I push it open, my gun already positioned, and take measured steps inside.

The interior is minimalistic, and the furniture seems to be expensive. He seems pretty well off.

Muffled sounds draw my attention; I make out a voice I believe belongs to Frank. I walk towards the sound, my feet making no sound on the wooden floors as I go past three closed doors on each side of the hallway.

His voice grows louder when I near a door on the right. Silently pulling it open, I see him in his home office, seated in a swivel chair, holding a pen and paper, a hot beverage steaming in a mug on a table beside him. The television is turned on, but he is not focused on it.

He talks to himself while he jots down on the paper. Are those his brilliant ideas to take me down?

Well, not tonight.

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