Page 7 of Forbidden

Two hours later, Ralph slumps into the chair across from my desk. We’re upstairs now, in my office—a tight, scarred box above the warehouse. He drops a thin folder, and the papers spillout like guts.“This is it?” I snatch the folder, flipping through the pages. “A fucking parking ticket? A year old?”

Ralph leans back, arms crossed. “The guy’s spotless, Adriano. Fifty, married, no kids. Runs his company like a saint—taxes filed, no dirt. The worst he’s done is skip a meter.”

I hurl the folder across the room, sheets scattering like ash. “Spotless? Nobody’s that pure. Dig deeper.”

“I did,” he replies, steady but cautious. “He’s a ghost. Either he’s dull as fuck, or he’s a goddamn genius at covering his tracks.”

I lean forward, my elbows gouging the desk and fingers laced tight. My pulse pounds, and there’s a dull ache in my skull. Kessler’s screwing me, and time’s running out. The cash has to move—now. Every day it sits, the feds creep closer, their stench on the wind.

“Then we stop asking,” I say, surging to my feet, the chair screeching back. “Get the boys. We’re hitting his place.”

Ralph’s brows shoot up. “You sure? This ain’t quiet.”

I grab my jacket, yanking it on as the leather settles heavily on my shoulders. “Quiet’s for losers with patience. I’m done.”

The drive is dead quiet, the SUV engine growling low. Ralph taps his knee beside me while Tony and Marco click magazines into their guns in the backseat. Streetlights smear yellow across the glass. I choke the wheel as I picture Kessler’s smug grin, thinking he’s safe. He’s about to learn otherwise.

We roll up to his brownstone in Queens—neat brick, cushy setup, lights glowing warm like a damn postcard. I cut the engine and step out, nodding to the crew. They move like shadows, fast and sure.

Tony picks the lock in ten seconds, and the door pops open. We slip inside, our boots hushed on the hardwood. The living room is too perfect—lavender and old paper, a lie of peace.Kessler lounges on the couch, glasses low, the TV muttering news. His wife is knitting, her gray bun tight.

She spots us, and her needles crash down as a gasp tears free. Kessler jolts up, eyes bugging, hands scrabbling for the remote like it’ll save him.

“Who the hell—” he stammers, but I’m on him, seizing his shirt and slamming him to his feet.

“Shut it,” I hiss, smashing him into the wall. His glasses skid away. “You think you can fuck me?”

His wife shrieks, a piercing sound. Marco grabs her, dragging her toward the kitchen. She kicks and thrashes, but he’s a brick wall.

“Let her go!” Kessler chokes, his voice splitting.

I twist his collar tighter. “You had a deal. My money, your company. What flipped?”

He wheezes, his face purpling. “I—I got a better offer. It’s not personal!”

“Not personal?” I ram him again, his skull cracking against the drywall. “You’re bleeding me dry, you fuck. That’s as personal as it gets.”

Ralph steps up, papers in hand—the contract, the transfer. I shove them into Kessler, pinning him. “Sign.”

He shakes his head, quaking. “I can’t—”

I jerk my chin at Tony by the kitchen. “Do it,” I say, my voice ice cold.

A scream cuts off, muffled, then a thud. Kessler’s eyes whip toward it, frantic. “No, please—don’t hurt her!”

“Sign the fucking papers,” I growl, bearing down. “Or she’s gone.”

His hands tremble as he snatches Ralph’s pen. He scrawls his name, ink bleeding, tears streaming. I rip the papers free, scanning the signature. Done.

“Secrecy clause,” I snap.

Ralph slides it over. Kessler signs again, blind, sobbing like a kicked dog.

I release him, letting him crumple. “Smart move.”

Tony returns, wiping his hands. “She’s fine. Tied, gagged, breathing.”

Kessler crawls toward the kitchen, whimpering like a beaten dog, his hands scrabbling at the hardwood. I don’t look back. I pivot, snatch the papers from Ralph and shove them into my jacket, the leather creaking as I jam them deep. Then I step closer to Kessler, looming over him. His sobs hitch, pathetic and wet.

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