Page 15 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Job done, I move through the building slowly.
The layout is simple and crude, with corrugated walls sectioning off rooms no larger than horse stalls, some padlocked, some half-ajar.
The deeper I go, the stronger the stench becomes: mildew and rot, old food, waste.
In the dimness, the concrete beneath my boots is cracked and damp, littered with discarded clothing and wrappers.
I pass one room filled with rusting cots, thin blankets thrown over foam slabs that have long since given up their shape.
A single bulb flickers overhead, casting shadows in jagged slices.
Another room holds the remnants of makeshift living: plastic water jugs stacked in the corner, tin plates covered with dried rice, a pair of worn sneakers tucked beneath a stained pillow.
But there’s no one here. I keep moving, checking behind every door, my grip steady on the handle of my gun.
Then I find the last door, bolted from the outside.
A heavy chain is looped through the handle, the kind used for storage containers, not people. I don't waste time with keys.
One clean shot blows the lock apart, and the sound rings through the compound like a warning.
The door creaks open.
It takes my eyes a second to adjust.
The room is dim, lit only by a narrow strip of light from a broken vent.
Along the far wall is a wire cage, bolted to the floor, its door twisted slightly from where someone tried to force it open.
And inside—seventeen girls.
Maybe more.
I count quickly, by instinct, but I don’t linger.
They are young, some no older than fifteen, most wearing oversized hoodies or cotton nightgowns that hang off thin shoulders.
Hair hacked unevenly, arms bruised, eyes that don't blink.
Most of them don’t speak.
One girl whispers something in Ukrainian I don’t catch, and another starts to cry.
I crouch, hands out where they can see them.
"You’re safe now," I whisper, like I’m speaking to a wild animal I don’t want to spook. "You’re leaving. All of you."
I pull out my phone and dial a number I only use when I don’t want questions.
Captain Giuliani answers on the second ring. "Got a cleanup for you," I say. "Seventeen girls. Some underage. East port side. You know the warehouse."
A long silence.
Then, "Do I want to know what’s still breathing?"
"One man. Left leg. No ID. He’ll talk."
"Standard file?"
