Page 16 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"Standard file," I confirm.
It means no press.
No paperwork.
The precinct will call it a raid tipped off by an anonymous source.
The girls will be "liberated".
The ones without papers will be passed through a vetted pipeline I arranged two years ago—real documents, real names, real care.
Valentina helped fund the shelter herself.
The public will never hear about it, but the girls will live.
By the time I finish my sweep, Giuliani’s men are outside, plainclothes with real badges and clean records.
They take the girls one by one, wrap them in blankets, hand them bottled water and soft words.
The man I shot is hauled into a car without ceremony.
The bodies are bagged.
I sign nothing.
I linger long enough to see the cage dismantled.
Then I douse the rest of the compound in gasoline.
Crates. Mattresses. Paperwork.
Anything that could ever be touched by this filth.
The matchbook I toss catches fast.
Flame eats through the rot in seconds, climbing into the rafters like a verdict.
Smoke billows black and choking into the sky.
I watch the roof begin to collapse, one steel beam at a time, until the entire structure groans and folds into itself.
There is no need to leave a calling card.
Those who ran this place will know who did it.
And they will know why.
Back in the car, I roll down the window and let the smoke trail after me like incense.
My hands are steady on the wheel.
My shirt is stained, my breath even.
I may fuck.
I may gamble.
I may drink myself stupid some nights and ruin men just for the satisfaction of watching them break.
