Page 51 of Mafia Kingdom

"Where?"

"The construction site at Blackrock. The abandoned one."

I hang up without another word. Whatever Mikey's found, it must be significant for him to insist on a face-to-face this early.

Back in the bedroom, I dress silently, watching Sasha sleep. I write a quick note and place it on my pillow:Had to step out. Back soon. Stay inside.It's not enough, not nearly enough to explain anything, but it will have to do.

My fingers hover above her cheek, tempted to brush a strand of hair from her face, but I stop myself. Better not to wake her. Better not to have to explain where I'm going or what I suspect.

Better not to see the look in her eyes when she realizes what kind of man she's given herself to.

The construction site is eerily quiet, the skeletal framework of what was supposed to be a luxury apartment complex looming against the pale morning sky. The project went bust two years ago when the developer was found floating in the harbor with concrete in his lungs—unfortunate business dispute.

Mikey is already waiting, a thin, nervous man with quick eyes and quicker fingers. Former pickpocket, now one of my most valuable information gatherers. He's perched on a stack of cement blocks, smoking anxiously, a thick manila envelope clutched in his lap.

"This better be worth dragging me out of bed," I say, approaching him.

He stands quickly, stubbing out his cigarette. "You said to watch Lucas. To tell you if he was making any unusual moves." He thrusts the envelope toward me. "This is way beyond unusual, Boss."

I take the envelope, feeling the substantial weight of its contents. "Talk to me."

"It's all there," he says, gesturing to the envelope. "Photos, bank statements, phone records. Lucas has been meeting with the Black Crew for months."

I keep my expression neutral despite the fury building in my chest. "The ones who were using Sasha's garage?"

Mikey nods. "That's just the start. He's also been talking to some other outfit—a syndicate moving in from the north. They've been planning something big."

I open the envelope and start sifting through its contents. Phone records show dozens of calls to mobile numbers. In rushed handwriting are names of crew members. I glance up at Mikey as I tap the numbers.

“The Black Crew.” He fills in the blanks.

I return to the material in hand. Bank statements reveal suspicious deposits coinciding with various Walsh family operations. Then the photos—Lucas meeting with men I don't recognize, their expensive suits and hard eyes marking them as higher-level players.

But the last photo makes my blood run cold. Lucas standing outside Sasha's house, watching from his car. The timestamp shows it was taken two days before Dave and his crew beat her father.

"He set her up," I mutter, the realization like ice in my veins.

"What?"

I shake my head, tucking the evidence back into the envelope. "How long has this been going on?"

"At least six months, from what I could trace. But could be longer." Mikey shifts his weight nervously. "There's more. Lucas knew about the weapons shipment at the safehouse. He told them where you and Danny would be."

My brother. My own fucking brother orchestrated the hit that killed Danny. My father had been right.

Something inside me goes very still and very cold. Lucas has always been ambitious, ruthless even, but this? Betraying family? Having our youngest brother killed? It crosses a line I didn't think even he would dare.

"You've done good work, Mikey." I hand him an envelope of cash, substantially thicker than our usual arrangement. "Take a vacation. A long one."

He understands the implication immediately. "You sure? Might be useful to have someone still watching—"

"I'm handling this personally now." My tone leaves no room for argument. "Go. Today."

Mikey hesitates just a moment before nodding. "Be careful, Boss. He's not alone in this."

I watch him leave, my mind already calculating my next move. I know where Lucas will be. It's Wednesday morning, and old habits die hard.

The warehouse sits on the edge of the industrial district, with ancient brick walls covered in decades of graffiti. To most, it looks abandoned, another relic of Meath’s manufacturing past left to decay. But to us—to the Walsh brothers—it was once a sanctuary.

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