Page 44 of The Mafia Heir's Obsession

“Or just enjoying the Big Apple.”

I grunt a wordless reply. Then, “Does Martinez have a second?”

“Clarita Estevez.”

“Stats?”

If this was Declan, he’d give me her measurements, or I should say, the ones he’s making up on the spot to be funny, which the little bastard isn’t.

But it’s Dec.

“Clean. Hardworking. Seems she’s more respected and she also takes care of details.”

“That’s his death warrant, right there. Let’s move.”

Seamus and Clive go in first. I have another man in the driver’s seat today, I’ll call him Dave. And of course, one more man, but he’s waiting for my cue to follow.

The workers unloading and loading boxes and crates stop, falling silent as we pass. I’m in a suit with a long, lightweight coat over it. It’s not cold, but it’s not hot, either, and the coat adds a dash of theatrics I like.

Martinez, when we climb the stairs to his office, isn’t expecting us, and the expression of shock is priceless. His next moves seals his fate.

“Callahan Murphy, right? I spoke with one of your associates.” The man’s got a gut, needs to wipe the sweat from his face, and wash his greasy, graying hair. He puffs up as he leans back in his swivel chair, eyes shifting to behind me, where the two people who followed me up the stairs are waiting. “I explained the situation, and as you know, we handle a lot of things.”

“Do you now?” I pull out a cigarette and light up, blowing smoke into the room as I wait for my other man to come up the stairs.

“You’re new here, and unfortunately New York’s run?—”

“No, wait, I know this…” I take a drag, snap my fingers, and the woman, along with some heavyset dude, are ushered in by my final man. “This city’s run by all sorts of groups requiring payouts. The garbage collectors—run by one of the mafia families. Same with liquor licenses. And then there are the cops, and all the government agencies watching for illegal shipments. You gotta pay ’em all, am I right? Seamus, I think I’m right, yeah?”

He rolls his eyes slightly at my over-the-top, cliché Irish accent.

Martinez starts to nod.

And I sigh. “Thing is, I’m not new. Not new to grifters, criminals—being a rather good one, if I do say so myself?—”

“No, y’are, there, Callahan. A brilliant criminal.”

“Thank you, Seamus,” I say, not smiling. Christ. These people. I should kill them all on principle. “My point is, I know how it all works. And, apart from the fact, it’s on you if you’re being extorted outside my protection, because whatever’s stretching your cash flow isn’t to do with the running of this spot. You know how I know? No one would fucking dare screw with anything I stamped my name on. I’m the worst of the lot. I grew up cleaning the floor with smug fuckers like you. The kind who thinks he can take advantage.”

“I have leeway?—”

“No. You don’t.” I cut my eyes to the woman and the dude. “Estevez?”

“Yes, Mr. Murphy?”

“If I offered you the deal to run this place and pay me my dues at say, every Thursday at three p.m., what would you do?”

“Make sure I had all your money for you by Tuesday night, at the latest.”

“Excellent,” I say to her, flicking my ashes on the floor. Then I approach Martinez. Blowing the smoke between my lips, I kick his desk out of the way, and before he can move and grab his hidden weapon or even rise, I’ve shoved his chair, slamming it into the wall, and I’m on him. I knee him in the groin, his cries and squeals pure choir music any fucking priest would be proud of. Then I break all his fingers, sucker punch his throat, then stand.

“There are consequences, and this is it. You end today.” Iglance at my brother and don’t even bother looking at Estevez and the dude. They’re not going to help this man.

He’s crying, sputtering, pleading through the screams, and I take a final drag on my cigarette before putting it out on his face.

“Gun?” I say to Seamus. “Or a beating? Or both?”

I look at the maggot and punch him in the face. The crunch and spurt of blood from his nose is satisfying, and I slam into him again and again, putting my all into it, the aggression, the frustration, the sexual fucking frustrations for good measure.

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