Page 110 of The Mafia Heir's Obsession

“I haven’t called him.”

“Didn’t her text say something about the Diamond District?” Seamus pulls out his phone and starts going through it. I’m heading to the Williamsburg Bridge. If I was fucking Paddy, I’d take her to Brooklyn or Queens.

Her father’s in Queens. If I was going to make an educated guess, I’d say she’s in Brooklyn somewhere.

Or she’s?—

No. Not fucking going there.

She’s alive. She has to be. And I’ll rip this city apart, burn it to the ground to get her back. But first, I’ll start with a place we found out about in Greenpoint where Polish, Russian, and some Italian lowlifes hang out. It’s also owned by an Osinov. Not bratva, but still a thug, and one who does business with his family’s affiliates stateside.

Someone might know him there.

It’s a place to fucking start, at the least.

I give orders for Seamus to hand out, and one of those is to retrace the steps of de Rosa.

When I come up on Dive Bar—real fucking name—I stomp on the brake and the tires screech to a halt.

I flick the cigarette butt out the window.

“Before you get out, Cal, remember that small town outside of Dublin where we had to take care of business?”

My hand’s on the door handle and I look down at the bag as he picks it up. “Yes.”

“Well, then. How many cocktails do you want? And do you want the special?”

“Let’s take two, full-powered ones. One special for our entrance.”

I run to the door, light the special Molotov cocktail, open the door of the bar, and hurl it inside. It’s a special mix that goes bang and the flames burn high and fast, fizzling out quickly. Behind me, Seamus holds the real Molotovs in hand and a lighter in the other. I walk in with my gun in hand.

“Not here to cause you trouble. I just wanted your fucking attention.”

A few people scream and run out. We let them go. They’re not the ones we’re interested in.

“I’m Callahan Murphy. I’m looking for Piotyr Osinov, aka Paddy O’Sullivan. He just kidnapped my wife. If anyone has any information on him and his whereabouts, I won’t forget the favor.”

No one says a word for a long minute. Then the bartender steps out from behind the wood bar. “That fuck? Came in lookin’ for bratva connections. Here.” He hands me a card with an address on the back. “That’s where he’s been staying.”

We leave.

“Torin came through with some leads. You think this is good?” Seamus waves the card as I pull out and slam my foot on the gas.

“Fuck no. He won’t be there long, but we’ll check it out.”

The warehouse is empty when we reach the address in Bushwick. But we bust in anyway, Seamus holding the bag of Molotov cocktails.

There have definitely been somesquatters here, but the cigarette butts are cold and the beer still in the bottles is room temperature and flat when I pour it out.

I tear the place apart, the cots, the ratty sofa, the makeshift fucking kitchen. I then kick the shit out of the wall when Seamus grabs me.

“The wall’s innocent. But look…” He shows me the crumpled business cards. One of them belongs to a dry cleaner in Fresh Pond.

“Call Tor. Ask if any of his contacts know of any activity in Fresh Pond.”

Before we can move, the sound of footsteps approach. I hold out my gun right as the door splinters and a hail of bullets tear up the room. I throw my brother to the ground and we crawl behind the shitty sofa.

“Now would be a good time for one of your cocktails, the real ones, Seamus.”

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