Page 87 of Mafia and Gold Digger

“Stubborn?”

“Yeah. You know, you wanting to prove a point. Because Alberto bet you a hundred grand that you would never lower your standards to be with someone like Emerald. You know, after he said he thought she was fat and a whore.”

My heart plummets to my stomach in a single second. And my good mood instantly deflates. Striding back toward the kitchen, I don’t listen to the rest of their conversation, fury and something else simmering inside me.

I’m never going to get away from my family’s reputation. And I don’t know what stings more—being called fat or being called a whore. Okay, so I’m not a freaking size six, but so the hell what? Why does beauty have to be judged by your goddamn dress size all the time? I’m not about to start apologizing for my figure—that’snevergoing to happen, not in a million years.

But did Saint really make such a disgusting and insulting bet over me?

And being called a whore again after what I heard Janice and Myra say about me earlier…

It’s like the word hits a raw wound inside me that never heals.

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

SAINT

The computer forensic expert I’ve been using has come up with another lead. There’s suspicious electronic traffic which could be a hacker trying to get into the casino systems again. It’s coming from a location in an industrial site to the north of the city.

With Christian, Leoluca, and a group of our best soldiers, our convoy of vehicles makes our way to the location. It’s dark and late, but I won’t rest until we’ve checked this place out. Intel says it’s a disused warehouse, but we have to be prepared for anything.

I’m sitting in the front of one of the black vans. The team in the back is quiet, focused, double checking their gear and testing their radios. This is the calm before the storm. With a traitor in our midst, only our most trusted men are in on this. They’re not just our soldiers—they’re the men I’d trust with my life.

The radio crackles. It’s Christian radioing from his van. “In position. I’ll give the signal when we’re ready to move.”

I press the button on my radio. “Copy that. Await your signal.”

The van slows as it pulls into the alley near the warehouse. The building looms ahead, a decaying monument to whatever industry used to thrive here. The windows are boarded up, though a few hang loose and reveal broken panes and rusted metal.

“Showtime,” Christian radios, and I give the nod to the men.

They fling open the rear double doors and leap down, their boots crunching against the gravel.

I hold up my hand and signal for everyone to get into place. The team moves like a well-oiled machine. Each man falls into place. We approach the warehouse quickly and quietly. Our eyes scan the perimeter and every shadow and crevice, looking for signs of movement. There’s nothing. Not yet.

Christian’s team comes in from the other direction. Leoluca’s team is already working on the entrance lock. Forcing it open, the large door creaks as we push it inward, leading us into an oppressive darkness, broken only by the beams of our flashlights cutting through the icy air.

The walls of the warehouse stretch up into an abyss of black. Rows of rusted machines line the floor, some toppled over, long past being of any use, and crates are stacked haphazardly, creating a labyrinth of obstacles.

I raise my hand, signaling the team to fan out. “Team two, hold the rear and secure the perimeter,” I say in a low voice into my radio.

We move with stealth. The only sounds are the faint squeak of rats and the occasional creak of the old building settling.

My flashlight sweeps across the floor. I catch a trail of footprints in the dust. My pulse quickens.

“Someone was here,” I murmur, crouching to examine the prints. “Not long ago.”

Christian peers over my shoulder, his flashlight joining mine. “Could be fresh. They’re leading deeper in.”

We follow the trail, weaving through the warehouse’s maze-like interior. The smell of oil and decaying wood grows stronger, mixing with something metallic—blood, maybe?

We come to an open space near the center of the warehouse. A table sits in the middle, surrounded by chairs, some knocked over. Papers and empty coffee cups litter the surface. It’s a makeshift command post, hastily abandoned.

“They knew we were coming,” Leoluca says, his voice tight. He shines his light on a stack of blueprints rolled out on the table. “Look at this. They’ve got maps of the city. Routes marked, likely their escape plans.”

I clench my jaw. They’ve fucking slipped through our fingers. My flashlight catches a glint of something on the table. A discarded knife, blade still smeared with dried blood.

My light catches a door at the far end of the space, slightly ajar. We stride quickly and quietly, weapons drawn. The door leads to a narrow corridor, dimly lit by a single flickering bulb, and the walls are stained with grime. At the end of the hall, another door hangs open, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. “Basement,” Christian grits out.

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