Page 40 of Wicked Mistletoe

RAFAEL

“This fucker.” Romero’s voice drips with disgust as he tosses a glance back at me. “I thought you had Little Italy under control?”

I only clench my jaw, the rage building too strong to fire back a retort. Fuck. I do have it under control. Or at least, I thought I did until this little shit we’re following drove straight into my territory, proving that I absolutely don’t have it under contro, notl if it’s been the hotbed for these kidnappers all along.

We shadow him through the tight, winding streets I know by heart, into one of the redevelopment areas—or what’s supposed to be. Half-finished projects stand abandoned. Rotting. Perfect hideouts for vermin. Our target vanishes around a corner, but we don’t need visuals. Michael’s monitor shows the vehicle stopping in front of an old building that’s scheduled to be bulldozed any day now.

But then again, it’s been scheduled to be bulldozed ‘any day now’ for about six years.

My nails dig into my palms as the truth sinks in—these bastards have been operating right under my nose this whole time, and I didn’t even notice. Some king of the streets I’ve turned out to be.

Maximo pulls our van up to the curb and kills the engine. The silence feels loaded, expectant.

“Let’s get this asshole,” I growl, already on my feet. Michael nods, following suit.

My brothers and I exit the van and walk down the street, boots hitting the pavement that feels less like my territory and more like enemy ground now. We round the corner towards the dilapidated building—just a hollow-eyed corpse of brick and steel. No signs of life anywhere. Not even a stray cat.

I almost question if we’ve got the wrong spot, but Michael’s got this phone out, the screen glowing in his hand. And yes, the little blip on the map confirms it. Our suspect’s car is indeed parked somewhere inside.

We’re dealing with a smart motherfucker, no doubt.

Smart enough to operate from a place nobody would look twice. Smart enough to keep his head down until my brothers and I started our takeover of the city.

Six years ago, he got away with his sick games because of the series of crimes that took the city by storm. And hell, he would’ve gotten away with it again if it wasn’t for Romero taking on the case and bringing it to our attention. The thought makes my blood boil. How many more of these fuckers are hiding in my blind spots?

We walk through the gaping doorway of the building and, sure enough, there’s our suspect’s car—a run-down old sedan that looks like it’s been abandoned for decades. But Michael’s tracker doesn’t lie. This is his car. And when I place my hand on the bonnet, it’s warm.

A masterpiece of deception.

Maximo crouches, takes out the tracker from beneath the vehicle, and pockets it. I scan the wide-open space, searching for any sign of a hidden entrance. Since he’s not an amateur,he’ll have escape routes, security measures. My brothers fan out, combing every inch.

A few minutes later, Michael’s low whistle draws us in. He points to a ragged rug in the corner that wouldn’t catch your eye unless you’re looking for something out of place.

My gaze locks on it as I go down on my haunches to peel it back.Bingo. A wooden trapdoor, complete with an honest-to-god ring pull. How quaint. I yank it open, exposing a small ladder leading down to a basement.

My brothers and I exchange glances—Maximo’s already got his weapon drawn; Michael’s expression’s colder than usual. Romero’s eyes are sharp, calculating, and I can feel the tension crackling between us. We don’t need to say a word. We all know what to do.

I slide my gun from my holster and climb down the ladder first, followed closely by Maximo, Michael, and Romero.

We emerge into a narrow hallway, bathed in the sickly glow of red emergency lights. My phone vibrates in my pocket with a call, and I stiffen, coming to a halt.

Checking the screen, I see it’s Landon calling. He probably finally has something for me on Emilia. I end the call, refocusing on the task at hand. Whatever it is, it can wait. This can’t.

We continue walking down the hallway, silent as ghosts, until it opens into one big spacious room. Instantly, we put our backs to the wall, then inch forward to peek around the corner. One quick look tells me what we need to know—three tables pressed together to make one large surface, and on top, our kidnapped girl. She’s not moving, but I can see her chest rise and fall. The room is otherwise empty.

At the far end, there’s a doorway, and behind it, muffled Italian filters through. My instincts flare.

I signal behind me before I push away from the wall and quickly approach the door. The closer I get, the clearer the wordsbecome. My mind automatically translates as I listen, years of speaking both languages making it second nature.

“What do you mean you couldn’t find the fucking surgeon, Luka?” A commanding voice speaks—he’s in charge of this operation, no doubt about it. That’s the voice of someone used to being obeyed.

“I swear, boss.” This must be Luka. His voice carries a hint of fear. “It’s like he disappeared. He wasn’t home, his numbers were dead, and when I called you, you didn’t answer, so I went ahead to grab her anyway.”

The boss curses, then another voice speaks up, “You should’ve used your head, Luka. What are we supposed to do with the girl now that we don’t have a surgeon to operate on her?”

Chills run down my spine at how casually they’re discussing mutilating a child. I meet my brothers’ eyes, seeing my own disgust and rage mirrored there. With a quick questioning look, I silently ask for confirmation. And at their nod, I raise a finger—wait here so I can assess the situation first. They don’t like it, I can see it in their eyes, but they trust me.

The door handle is cold under my palm as I push it open.

---