Page 98 of Letters From Victor

I spun, revolver up, finger tight on the trigger. A shadow stretched down the stairwell, growing with each step.

“Boss, it’s me!” The voice floated down, hushed but urgent. “Christ, don’t shoot!”

I didn’t lower the gun. “Gino?”

He stepped into the dim light, hands up, face pale. “I was worried when you didn’t come back to the car.” His gaze snapped to Phil, and the color drained from his face like someone had pulled the plug.

I motioned him down with a flick of the barrel. He hesitated, then took each step like it might be his last. I kept the gun trained on him the whole way. Trust wasn’t something I handed out anymore—not even to my own men.

“Holy mother of?—”

“Save it,” I cut him off. “Won’t change a damn thing.”

He swallowed hard. His voice wavered. “Who…who did this?”

I holstered my weapon—not out of relief, just resignation. I didn’t answer him. “Gino, get the car ready.”

I crossed to the desk and picked up the telephone. The clicks of the rotary grated on my frayed nerves.

Gino stayed put, eyes fixed on Phil. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. I shot him a glare. He flinched, then hurried up the stairs. I liked that he was scared. Fear made men predictable. It kept them careful. Kept them breathing.

The line crackled to life. “Yeah?”

“It’s Victor. Get a crew to Phil’s butcher shop. Fast. Some meat got left hanging, and it’s starting to stink.”

A pause. “Got it, Boss.”

I hung up and wiped down the receiver with a rag from the desk. I scanned the room one last time. The fluorescent light washed everything in a sickly green, like an old silver plate photograph gone bad.

I flipped through the ledger. Every deal, every payoff, every debt—Phil kept it all neat as a banker. Coded, sure, but it was all there. Everything else in this basement could burn. But not this.

I shoved the ledger and papers inside my coat, their uncomfortable bulk pressing against my ribs. I started up the stairs, each step heavier than the last—like dragging myself out of a grave. Phil’s grave.

Then it hit me.

Barbara.

If someone could get to Phil, they could get to her. To Frankie. My gut twisted. I ran through a dozen scenarios, each blacker than the last. They were more vulnerable than any of us, more exposed. And she was the one person I couldn’t afford to lose.

A jolt of fear punched me square in the chest, hard and mean. Not the slow-burn kind I could manage—this was raw, primal, out of control. I bolted up the stairs into the shop where Gino hovered near the door, wringing his hands like a schoolboy caught cheating.

“Boss—”

“Why the hell aren’t you in the car?” I grabbed his collar and hauled him outside, shoving him toward the curb. “We need to go. Now!”

Gino scrambled, flinging the door open for me before diving behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, spitting smoke and fury. For half a second, I almost believed we’d make it.

“Where to, Boss?” Gino asked, voice still shaking.

“Barbara’s. And step on it.”

The car lurched forward, tires squealing against concrete. Los Angeles streaked past in a smear of neon and asphalt, the night burning bright and cold around us. Gino tore through traffic like a man with nothing to lose. Horns blared and voices cursed, the city’s hum thick with heat and anger.

Gino took a sharp left, slamming me into the door. I gritted my teeth and shot him a look that should’ve killed, but I kept my mouth shut. He looked like a haunted man, and maybe he was. Fear spreads like an infection.

Phil should’ve seen this coming. Hell, I should’ve seen it. We were slipping. We got soft. No—Igot soft.

My thoughts raced ahead of us, already at Barbara’s doorstep. Would they be waiting for me? Using her and Frankie as bait? How had it all gone to hell so fast?

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